“You would know,” she teases in a sing-song voice, but her eyes widen when she realizes what she said, and she slams a hand over her mouth.
I wave away her concern. Yes, it’s true, I blew out my knee playing football and the injury ruined my career, but I’m not going to break down and cry each and every time someone alludes to it. I’m a big boy. I’ve made peace with my past.
“Come on. I’ll make you something to eat. Pasta okay?”
“You can cook?”
“Did you forget I own a bakery?”
Bake Me Happy is my pride and joy. Maybe it’s weird for a six-foot-five former football player to own a bakery, but I don’t care. I’ve loved baking since my mother sat me on the kitchen counter and taught me the difference between salted and unsalted butter. Plus, there’s the challenge of creating baked goods made with local, organically grown ingredients. I always did love a challenge.
“Baking and cooking are not the same thing.”
She isn’t wrong. “Yes, I can cook,” I tell her.
I walk to the kitchen to get started on dinner. The living/kitchen/dining areas are open concept so she can see into the kitchen from where she’s standing. It’s a massive space. Since I’m a big guy, I need to have room to move around. I also test out new recipes at home making having a big kitchen with multiple ovens a necessity.
“Get comfortable while I make us some dinner.”
She doesn’t listen to me. Of course not. I don’t know why I’d expect her to at this point. I can tell by the brackets around her mouth she’s in pain and needs to rest, but if I mention her pain, she’ll never rest. I grit my teeth before I say something I shouldn’t.
I decide on a simple pasta as it’s the quickest dish I can put together. While I throw together a Bolognese sauce, Ash explores my house. There’s not a whole lot to explore as I prefer to keep things neat and tidy.
The living room is dominated by a U-shaped sofa. In front of the sofa is my pride and joy – an eighty-five-inch television.
“Holy shrine to the football gods, you could host Sunday football with this setup,” Ash yells.
“Do you like football?”
In my experience, they are two types of women who claim to like football – those who love the game and those who are trying to impress a man. I doubt Ash would ever try to impress a man. No, if the man isn’t impressed with her how she is, she’s not interested.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Am I a red-blooded American? Of course, I love football.”
“Real football?” I press. “And not some fantasy league?”
“Watch it, oaf. I kick ass in fantasy league football.”
My hands stop chopping onion long enough to glance over at her. “Want to put your money where your mouth is?”
Her nose wrinkles and she bites her lip and I wonder what possessed me to use the word mouth in relation to Ash. Now, I’m imagining those luscious lips biting me instead of her lip. Blood rushes south to my groin and I have to lock my jaw before a moan slips out.
“You’re in trouble now, oaf. I’ll accept your wager, but I don’t want money.”
Is it too much to ask for her to want sexual favors if she wins? Damnit. No. I will not be indulging in sexual favors with this woman no matter how much I may want to.
“What do you want?” I manage to force the question out of my mouth.
“A year’s supply of peanut butter cookies.”
I tap my chin and pretend to consider it. “And what do I get when I win?”
She snorts. “When? You won’t win, but if you do…” she pauses and I grip the knife in my hand tight before I do something incredibly stupid such as haul her into my arms, “… you can have whatever you want.”
Wrong thing to say, Ash. Wrong thing to say. Because what I want, she can’t handle.
“I’ll think about it and let you know.” I force myself to return to chopping the onion. “Get comfortable on the sofa. I’ll bring the food out when it’s ready.”
I expect her to bitch at me for ordering her around, but she must be in more pain than I thought, because she plops down on the sofa and grabs the remote control to switch on the television.