When she opened her mouth to tell him where he could shove his meat, he tossed the piece he’d been holding on her tongue. And, holy shit, it was good. Smoky and spicy and rich. And the stuff damn near melted like butter on her tongue.
“Mmm,” she agreed while chewing, swallowing the whole thing at once. “I can’t even,” she said with a shake of her head. It was the kind of deliciousness found in a five-star restaurant. One that would come with funky garnishes and cost about forty bucks.
Brandon grinned, fully aware of how good he was. “Right?” he said. “No more blasphemous talk about frozen pizzas.”
Stella shook her head. “That was amazing.”
He picked up a pair of tongs and shooed her away from the counter. “Now go sit down. I just have to finish with the spinach.”
Stella retrieved her glass of wine from the counter. “I can dish my own plate.”
“Yeah right. You’ll have us eating off paper towels.”
“And you’ve never eaten off a paper towel.”
He tossed the spinach around in the skillet and then drizzled more oil on top. “Maybe when I was six.” Then he set the tongs down, turned her from the counter, and smacked her ass. “Go. Sit.”
Of all the…rude things to do! Smacking her on the ass as though his wandering, yet delightfully playful, hand had every right to make contact with her derriere. Who did he think he was? As though it was supposed to turn her on? As though he knew it turned her on? She sat at the table and eyed his wide shoulders and back, admiring how his T-shirt stretched with just enough tightness to elicit little tingles in her belly. Yeah, the man filled out a shirt like nobody’s business.
Before her thoughts went any further, Brandon finished dinner and approached the table with two plates. He set hers down first, because he was a gentleman like that, then took his own seat.
He’d poured some kind of buttery cream sauce on the steak and gave her a healthy dose of spinach and roasted red potatoes.
“Do you cook like this every night?” Stella asked as she placed her napkin in her lap.
“Nah,” Brandon replied as he dug into his own food. “Matt’s gone a lot, either with football or his girlfriend.” He eyed her as he chewed his steak.
“My mom was gone a lot too,” she replied with a shrug. Just shrug it off because it’s always okay.
Brandon’s silverware clinked against the plate as he cut his food. “Your dad was never around?”
Stella’s food sank to the pit of her stomach like a brick at the mention of her father. She’d managed to block out her earlier fight with her mom, even though it had only happened about two hours ago. But she’d pushed it down along with the emotional toll it had taken on her. Anger and hurt over being lied to. Guilt at the look of grief on her mom’s face and the way Stella had spoken to her. Driving through town with tears streaming down her face, wondering if there would ever be a time in her life when she’d be at peace. A time when she wouldn’t be kicking herself for giving up on her dream for a man. Or taking care of her sick grandmother. Or constantly trying to keep her anxiety in check or pretend she didn’t want to throw up when someone got too close to her. How did people live normal lives? How did they go from day to day without waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Tears burned the back of her eyes as she tried to ready an appropriate response to Brandon’s question. She drew from her years of practice and pulled herself together. “I never knew my dad,” she finally answered, keeping her attention on her plate. If she didn’t look at Brandon, he wouldn’t see the lies swirling in her eyes. Or the paper-thin control that would snap if she let her guard down.
When Brandon remained silent, Stella risked a glance. His fork was loosely gripped in his left hand, but his gaze was sharp, as though patiently waiting for her to figure her shit out. Waiting for her to sort through the mess of her life so she could confide in him.
Wasn’t going to happen. She hadn’t even told Annabelle about her fight with her mom, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell Brandon.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said.
She shrugged again because she was so good at it. “It is what it is. He took off before I was born and my mom did her best with me.” Except she hadn’t, but Stella left that part out.
“Did she?” Brandon asked.
Stella paused in the act of stabbing her fork into a potato. “Did she what?”
“Do her best with you?”
She snagged the potato and dropped it in her mouth. “Under the circumstances, I guess.” Perhaps Gloria had thought she was doing her best.
Thankfully, Brandon let the subject drop. Darkness had fallen while they polished off their meals and talked about other things. Safe things, like the football season and Blake and Annabelle’s upcoming spring wedding.
But he knew she was hiding something. She could see it in his eyes when they searched hers, as though looking for the secret she refused to share. While she appreciated that he didn’t pry, Stella knew it was only a matter of time before she’d have to come clean. Their relationship could never go beyond casual flirting and heated kisses if she couldn’t be honest with him. Being her own worst enemy would put a stop to things with him before they’d have a chance to start.
After dinner, Stella had moved to the living room. Brandon was in the kitchen washing dishes, despite her offering to do them. He’d shooed her out, much the same way he had before, minus the ass pat. Much to her disappointment. Against her better judgment, she’d refilled her glass of wine. Considering what had happened the last time she’d drunk too much, getting an eyeful of Brandon’s bare ass in the men’s room, Stella should have held off. But the wine was sweet and warm in her system, relaxing her when she otherwise would have been wound tight with nerves. Nerves from her afternoon with her mom and wanting Brandon so damn bad she could hardly stand it.
She sipped from her glass and scanned photos on the fireplace mantel. The framed pictures varied from Matt’s football pictures to ones of him in diapers. A five-by-seven in the middle caught her eye. It was a picture-perfect summertime photo at the beach of Brandon on his stomach in the sand, with Matt on his stomach also, perched on his dad’s back. Both had wet sandy hair and big smiles and were squinting in the sun. Matt looked no more than seven or eight and Brandon…well, he looked like he always did. Larger than life, bare shoulders, twice as wide as his son’s. Strong. Solid. And like he could tackle anything thrown his way. Slay dragons and all that. Because men were supposed to do that kind of thing, weren’t they? Stella wouldn’t know because she’d never had a man willing to put himself out there like that. Or anyone, really. Including her own mother.