Breakfast in Bed

chapter 6


RICH WAITED FOR BECCA TO OPEN THE DOOR TO THE apartment. The handles of the plastic bags cut into his hands.
"How long does this take to cook?"
Becca turned the key in the deadbolt. "It has to bake about forty-five minutes."
"I'm hungry now. I worked through lunch."
"So, make a sandwich. I didn't eat either."
"I thought you had lunch at Annabelle and Mike's with your parents."
Becca kicked the door opened. "Yeah. I didn't stay to actually eat anything."
"How come?"
Becca tossed the bag she held onto the counter. "How do grilled cheese sandwiches sound?"
Her smile was a little too practiced. Something went down she didn't want to talk about. "Good."
She pulled out a cast iron frying pan and set it on the stove. "Great. Have at it. I like mine pretty toasty but not burnt."
"Huh?"
She rummaged through the refrigerator and took out a few things.
"I don't know how to make grilled cheese."
Becca sighed, which put his back up. "Don't you dare treat me as if I'm stupid. I have three post-secondary degrees. I know a thing or two."
"Yeah, just not anything to do with the kitchen."
"Thanks for the news flash. Aren't you getting tired of pointing out my ineptitude?"
Becca smiled a real smile this time. "Not yet." She didn't bother to try stifling her laughter. "All you have to do is put a couple pieces of cheese in between a couple pieces of bread and butter both sides of the sandwich, fry it until it's brown on the bottom, flip it over, and once the bottom is browned and the cheese is melted, it's done. Cut it in half—I like triangles—and eat. It's easy. I'm going to change out of these wet clothes while you cook."
"It doesn't sound too difficult. Go on."
Rich opened a package of cheese like he'd never seen before. It didn't come from a deli. It was wrapped in plastic, and it said that it was made from milk. What the hell else do you make cheese out of?
Rich buttered four slices of bread, stuck a couple pieces of cheese in between, and placed them in the hot pan. They sizzled. There, that wasn't so hard. He opened a few drawers looking for a flipper thing. He found one and stuck it under the corner of the first sandwich, peeked under and it, and it wasn't browned yet. He had it under control.
He stuck his head in the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He popped the top, took a pull, and waited a few minutes before he grabbed the frying pan. "F*ck!" He burned his hand on the metal handle. "Shit!" He ran cold water over his hand and caught Becca poking her head out of her bedroom door.
"Everything okay?"
"Of course."
"It smells like something is burning."
"Oh f*ck." Rich grabbed a towel, folded it a couple times, and held it in his burned hand. He gently held the handle and turned the now burned sandwiches. Shit. He was cursing under his breath when he noticed the smoke. He looked down and found that the towel was smoldering. Shit, shit, shit. He threw the burning towel into the sink and ran the water over the flames that erupted.
He remembered there were potholders somewhere. He began opening drawers looking for them. There was one hanging off the refrigerator. He grabbed it and checked the sandwiches; the one side was golden brown. Rich took two plates out of the cupboard and slid the sandwiches onto the plates, putting the burnt side down. Becca wanted it cut in triangles. Sheesh. Demanding much? Rich went to the silverware drawer, took out a knife, and cut them both in half. He took a bite of his—it was a little crunchy but not bad. Okay, so, it wasn't good, but it was edible. Not that he would have eaten it if he were home alone. But Becca would be stepping out of her bedroom any second, and he'd be damned if he'd let her know he couldn't stand his own cooking, such as it was. It was a little crunchy and chewy, but hey, it was only a little burnt, along with his hand, which throbbed with every beat of his heart.
Becca returned just as he stuffed the last piece of his sandwich in his mouth. Her hair was now dry, and she'd changed into yet another one of her old baggy sweats. He smiled. She was beautiful in a kind of girl-next-door way even though she wore some god-awful clothes.
"Your sandwich is ready. I even cut it in triangles like you asked."
"I'm impressed. It looks great."
"It does?"
"Yes." She picked up a piece and took a bite.
From the look on her face, he knew she changed her mind. Then she kind of gagged and put her hand in front of her lips while she pulled something from her mouth. Oh, man. He screwed up.
Becca held a piece of plastic between her fingers. "Rich, you're supposed to unwrap the cheese before you cook it."
"Right."
"What happened to yours?"
"I ate it."
"Please tell me that you just forgot to take the plastic off mine and not yours."
Rich shook his head and wondered if he should call Poison Control. He then gave Becca a look that dared her to say another word.
She turned away, and he knew she was laughing. "Okay, let's start making dinner because I'm hungry."
Rich wondered if he'd gotten off easy. Although when you consider that he might have just poisoned himself, and he did burn the shit out of his hand, maybe not so much.
Becca handed him a big bowl. "Put the meat in here." She took an onion out of the bowl on the counter. "Have you ever chopped an onion?"
"No."
Becca showed him how you cut the ends off, for some reason, starting with the hairy end. Once she got all the skin off, she told him to cut it in half and mince the onion.
"What does mince mean?"
"Chop in really small pieces."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"I did. You just don't have a big enough vocabulary."
"Fabulous." Rich cut the onion in half.
"That's the wrong way."
"What do you mean it's wrong? You said to cut it in half, and I did."
"The other way is better."
"Will this way work?"
"Yes.
"So what's the big deal?"
She kept her mouth shut, thank God, because his hand was throbbing, and she was getting on his nerves. It seemed to take forever to mince the onion even though he only needed a half a cup. He definitely saw why it would be easier if he'd cut it the other way, but he got it done. "Okay, what's next?"
"Put it in the bowl along with the meat. Then you want to add an egg, a cup of applesauce, a cup of bread crumbs, and then mix it," She took a bread pan out of the cabinet. "And put it in here. Then we bake it."
"That's all there is to it?"
"That's it. If you don't include putting the glaze on, cooking the potatoes or the endive."
"Escarole."
"Whatever. Just mix it all up."
"With what?"
"Your hands."
"Can't I use a spoon or something?"
"Not unless you don't want it mixed well."
"Fine." He stuck his unburned hand into the cold meat and started mixing.
"Rich, you have to get in there with both hands."
"Why?"
"Because that's how it's done."
Rich had been hiding his hand on the side of the cool bowl, which felt pretty good actually. He pulled it off the side and hesitated just a second before Becca grabbed his wrist.
"What did you do to your hand?" She sucked in air between her teeth. "Ouch. Did you just do this?"
"It's fine." Shit, he really hated that she caught him.
"Did you put anything on it?"
"Yeah, I ran cold water over it."
She smacked his shoulder.
"Thanks, Bec. That makes it feel so much better."
"You need to put burn cream on this and a bandage."
"It's fine."
"It is not. Don't put your hand in there."
"Yes, ma'am."
She pulled him out of the kitchen with all the meat gunk still stuck on his right hand. "What are you doing?"
"Taking you to the bathroom. There's a first aid kit in there. I'm sure there's some burn cream."
He didn't have much choice but to follow her.
She bent over, took the first aid kit out of the cabinet beneath the sink, and rummaged through it. "Here we are. Now…" She tucked his arm between her arm and her breast.
Her breast pressed against the inside of his arm, her back pressed against his front, and since their legs seemed to be the exact same length, her bottom pressed tightly against his fly. He took a deep breath and held it but only breathed in her perfume, which definitely didn't help matters, and tried not to squirm.
"Don't worry, it won't hurt."
At the moment, pain was the last thing on his mind. That was until she sprayed his hand with something that brought any happy thoughts to a screeching halt. "Ow! Shit!" Pain bright and sharp cut through his hand and ran straight up his arm. He tried to jerk it away, but she was strong and held firm.
"Stop being such a baby."
She blew on it, which did make it feel a little better, but not enough to forgive her for the pain she inflicted with that damn spray. He was going to make sure that stuff disappeared. "I'm not a baby."
"Right. You're a big strong man who screams from a little antiseptic spray." She spread some white cream over the burn and then wrapped it in gauze, taping the pieces together so it stayed on. She released his arm, turned to face him, and smiled. "There. All better."
"You didn't kiss it."
"What?"
His hand was still on her waist so he pulled her closer just to see what she'd do. "If you're going to call me a baby, the least you could do is kiss it and make it all better."

Becca sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm her heartbeat. She knew there was a way to do that, biofeed back or something, but right now, it was impossible to think of anything but this strong hard guy pressed against her.
She swallowed. "I'm not going to kiss your hand."
He smiled that knowing smile of his. "Do you want to kiss something else?"
Was he joking? "No?"
"Is that a question?"
Yeah, he was definitely joking, but then he was looking at her mouth too. Maybe because she'd just licked her lips. This was so not good for her equilibrium, especially since the bathroom seemed to shrink in size. "No. It's a no." She just wished she meant it, or at least sounded like she meant it.
He let go of her hand and laughed.
Damn him. She never knew that to expect from Rich. At first, she thought he'd give up on this stupid quest after his first mishap, but he hadn't. He was sweet to work that hard to get Gina back, but Becca couldn't help but wonder if Gina deserved it. And okay, it had crossed her mind what it would be like if he was going through all this trouble for her. That's natural, right?
Rich was a complete disaster in the kitchen, and well, just about everywhere else, but he was really cute about it. She knew he'd probably freak if he knew she thought so. Men weren't supposed to be cute. But every time he made a mistake, the range of emotions that crossed his face were nothing short of adorable. She would love to have seen him as a little boy.
Becca stepped back and made herself busy cleaning up after her Florence Nightingale duties and decided not to look too closely at the reason why Rich played the starring role in all her dreams since she'd met him at Annabelle and Mike's engagement party. Not that it really mattered; fantasies of Rich were nothing more than her visual for sexual stimulation. After all, she was a relatively normal, healthy twenty-six-year-old woman with needs. Why tax her brain to find someone else when she had Rich, the Italian Adonis, living in the same apartment? Between BOB and the incredibly vivid memories of Rich naked, attaining physical satisfaction hadn't been a problem. That didn't mean Becca was content. Far from it. Rich was fine for a fantasy relationship, but that wasn't what she wanted in reality. Not even close. It didn't escape her that when it came to figuring out what she did want, she never seemed to have enough time to concentrate on anything but her artistic ambition.
Becca wanted to make a name for herself in the art world. She wanted her sculptures in galleries and museums. She didn't question her own talent, unlike her parents. She knew she was good enough. Her problem was getting the attention of the right people. She needed to do some serious networking. She was in a new town, making a fresh start without having the family name hanging around her neck like an albatross. When she made it, she wanted to make sure it was her talent that cinched the deal and not her family's name.
Rich hadn't disappeared when she turned away from him as she hoped he would. He stood there watching her.
"You've been a little off today. What's wrong?"
"Other than you trying to poison me with plastic wrap?"
"Yeah, other than that."
She walked past him to the kitchen, and he followed her like a puppy. Tripod hopped beside him looking at Rich with adoring eyes. That was a switch.
"What did you do to Tripod?"
"Nothing. We bonded last night after I got home."
"Over ice cream? I found the evidence on the coffee table."
"Fine, the little guy likes ice cream, so shoot me. Oh, and don't think I fell for you changing the subject."
"I don't need to change the subject. I don't have to answer you at all."
"No, but you want to. I can tell."
Becca stuck her hands into the bowl and took all her frustration out on the meat. She mixed it while deciding whether or not to tell him. Aw, what the hell. It's not as if he could tease her about it. She had so much ammunition on him, he wouldn't dare.
"My father told me he'd pawned some of my work off to a gallery owner in the city who owed him a favor."
Rich rested his elbows on the bar across the counter from her. "That's good, right? You get your work out there. Maybe you'll even sell some of it."
Becca growled and slammed some meat into the waiting loaf pan.
"Or maybe not."
"Why does everyone think I need a favor to get my work shown? I'm good at what I do. I don't need someone pulling strings for me. I can do it by myself. That's why I moved here in the first place. To get away from my family."
"I'm starting to see a pattern here."
Becca raised an eyebrow but didn't ask what he meant by that. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
He pushed himself from the counter and walked into the kitchen, stopping right next to her. "Why do you feel you have to do everything all by yourself? Are you afraid of owing someone? Or are you trying to prove something to everyone who's doubted you? Are you going for the big 'I told you so?' Oh, I know. You're questioning yourself. You're trying to prove it to yourself."
She did her best to ignore his presence. "I don't need to prove anything. It wouldn't have been insulting if he'd introduced me to the man and let me sell myself. If something came out of the meeting, that would have been wonderful, but I want my work shown because it's good, not because my daddy got somebody's kid into med school." When she looked back up at Rich he was staring. "Stop treating me like one of your lab rats or a troubled student."
She pressed the rest of the meat into the loaf pan, washed her hands, and then tossed it into the oven with a little more force than was necessary. Every time she moved, she had to walk around Rich. He was always in her way; she wished he'd just disappear. On her way back to the sink to scrub the potatoes they danced around each other again until she faked left, moved right, and bee-lined up the middle to the sink. She felt Rich watch her while she scrubbed and dried the potatoes. "To make baked potatoes, you first have to scrub them. The rest is optional." She gathered what she needed and pulled a pan out of the cupboard.
"The rest of what?"
He stood close and looked over her shoulder as she poured olive oil onto her hand and rubbed it into the skins. "I dry them, rub them with olive oil, and then kosher salt. It makes the skins crispy."
"Leave it to you to complicate baked potatoes."
Becca poured kosher salt into her hands and began rubbing it into the oiled potatoes. "You'll thank me when you taste them."
"I thought I was supposed to do this."
"Yes, but with your burnt hand, you can hardly rub salt into the potatoes. Why don't you get the ketchup, brown sugar, and Dijon mustard out. You can make the glaze. You're right handed, correct?"
"Yeah."
Anything to get him to move the hell away. "Good. Get a measuring cup. Mix a half-cup of ketchup, a quarter of a cup of brown sugar, and a teaspoon of Dijon . When the meatloaf is almost done, I'll drain the grease, glaze the top of the meatloaf, and let it cook another fifteen minutes."
He took the ketchup and mustard from the fridge. "When do we make the escarole?"
"It shouldn't take too long to make. Maybe ten minutes or so. We'll start it after we glaze the meatloaf."
"How do you know this stuff?" He had his back to her as he pulled things out of the pantry.
"I used to hang around the kitchen with Madge, our cook. She was nice. I learned a lot."
"So your mom didn't teach you to cook?"
Becca laughed, breathing easier since he wasn't crowding her. "My mom wouldn't be caught dead in the kitchen. In the divorce, she got a house, the cook, and the housekeeper. Good thing for Dad that Mom was such a witch. They didn't stay with her. No matter how much she offered to pay them, it wasn't enough." Becca looked around the kitchen for something else to do while Rich made a mess measuring the ingredients into a bowl. "I thought I'd show you how to iron tonight."
He looked up and caught her eye. He finished what he was doing and wiped his ketchup-smeared good hand on a clean towel. Men. "Do you think that's a good idea? I haven't had much success with heat today."
The way he said it brought back the weirdly sexual thing in the bathroom. Her pulse rate doubled, and she had half a mind to just tell him to have anything that needed ironing dry-cleaned. That's what she did. After all, who had time to iron?
"Do you want to learn this stuff or not?"
"Yeah. I do. Bring it on."
Becca smiled. Oh yeah. "Let's go get some of your shirts and a couple pair of pants while the meatloaf cooks." She strode right into Rich's bedroom and opened his closet. All his shirts were hanging in dry cleaner's bags. The blue shirt she'd worn the morning after they woke up together hung on the footboard of the bed. She grabbed it.
Rich's eyes widened. "I don't want to iron that."
"Why?"
"Because that's my lucky shirt. What if I screw up?"
"If you do screw it up, it wouldn't be very lucky. Would it?"
"How about we start off with something easy, like my lucky handkerchief?"
"You have a lucky handkerchief?"
Rich stuck his hand in his pocket and shrugged. "It will be lucky if I don't burn the shit out of it."
"I guess we can start with a handkerchief if you're too scared to start with your lucky shirt."
"I'm not feeling lucky tonight." He held up his wounded hand. "Obviously."
Becca didn't want to touch that with a ten-foot pole. "Fine, where do you keep them?" He looked confused. "Your handkerchiefs?"
"Oh." He pointed to a basket of folded and ironed laundry.
She reached into the basket and rooted around and pulled a handkerchief out. "Your mother did your laundry?"
"Yeah, so? She likes doing my wash for me."
Becca laughed. "Rich, no one likes to do laundry. Not even your sainted mother. Go get the ironing board. It's in the closet by the back door."
"Oh, okay."
Rich disappeared and Becca took another look around his room. The place smelled of him, in a good way, like his cologne mixed with something that was all Rich. Whatever it was made her mouth water. She wondered if he tasted as good as he smelled.
"Becca, how do you get this to stand?"
When she turned the corner into the living room, he was pulling the legs away from the table. Okay, he was forcing it. "Stop!"
She pushed him to the side, held the ironing board, and pressed the lever underneath. The legs scissored out. "There you go, big guy. Did you remember to bring the iron?"
"What do I look like? An idiot?"
She didn't need to tell him he looked great with his sleeves rolled up showing off his muscular forearms; he had the arms of a masseur, not a professor. Shouldn't professors be pale and kind of not-built? At least all the professors she had were pale and not-built.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"No. Don't get all sensitive on me now, sheesh. What do you need? An atta boy?"
"An answer to my question would be helpful." He put the iron down on the board and bent to plug it in.
Becca rolled her eyes; he also had the nicest ass she'd seen in well, how long had it been since she worked with a male model? A while. She really needed to start dating. "We need to fill the reservoir with distilled water."
"Why?"
"Because tap water contains metal, which gunks up the works."
"Is that a technical term?"
"Do you need it to be? I think I saw some distilled water under the kitchen sink." Rich went to get it, and she watched even though it was self-torture.
He returned with the water and eyed the iron apprehensively.
"You pour the water in that hole there, and there's a clear tube that shows the water level. Don't overfill it."
"Why?"
"Do you want to iron in a puddle?"
"I don't know. Why do you need water in the first place?"
"To steam it."
"Why steam? Why not just heat?"
"Steam gets the wrinkles out better."
"Then what's wrong with ironing in a puddle?"
"Why do you have to question everything?"
"Probably because I want to know the answers."
"Okay, it's kind of like a wet spot on the bed. You have a great time making it, but no one wants to sleep on it."
"I don't mind."
"You don't mind what?"
"Sleeping on the wet spot. I'm a guy. I take great pride in creating wet spots, and sleeping on them just reminds me of all the fun I had."
"Right, you say that now. Guys will say just about anything to get the opportunity to create the wet spot, but in my experience, they roll over and start snoring, leaving me in the puddle."
"Sorry babe, but you just never slept with the right guys."
"Oh," Becca rolled her eyes. "I forgot. You're such an expert."
Rich chuckled in that sexy, deep-throated way he had. The kind of chuckle she'd be able to feel if she were up against him.
Becca took a step back because if she didn't she'd be tempted to see if she was right. "Okay, have at it. Iron in a puddle if you want. Just be careful of the steam. It can burn, and you only have one good hand left."
"That's it?" That little boy look was back. He stared at the iron as if it were alive and on the prowl. "You're not going to help me?"
"Rich, it's not thermonuclear fusion. It's a hot hunk of metal you push around on a piece of fabric to flatten it. If you press that button on top, it'll shoot out a burst of steam. If you hit the blue button, it'll squirt water out of the top there. I'm going to check on the meatloaf and wash the endive since you're wrapped up literally and figuratively."
"Right. It's just a hunk of hot metal that spits."
Becca turned her back on him and walked the few feet into the kitchen. When she tossed the endive into a salad spinner, she peeked at Rich, and he was still eyeing the iron like it was a poisonous snake. He set the iron down on the handkerchief, pushed the steam button, and a cloud of steam blew out with a swoosh. He didn't move the iron. A few seconds later he pressed the blue button and watched as water squirted out on the table in front of the iron. He still hadn't moved the iron. Sheesh. Becca had a feeling his handkerchief wasn't very lucky. She thought about telling him he had to actually move the iron, but what would be the fun in that?