Try.
Because he wanted to prove Greg wrong, he opened a new message for Kara. Then, thinking better of it, he closed that and called her. When she answered, he blinked in surprise before saying, “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said, her voice a little breathless.
There was a long pause, then she asked slowly, “Graham? You called me.”
“Right. Sorry.” Get it together, man. “I was wondering about dinner. Tonight. You know, just you and me.”
Kara cleared her throat, and he waited in resignation for the no.
“It’s funny you should ask.” Her voice sounded tight, but he wasn’t going to question it when hope soared. “Reagan is here, asking to babysit.”
That took him aback. “Reagan is there? What for?”
“To babysit,” she said again with what was obviously forced patience. “She just got it into her head to repay me for helping set up the gym the other night before the fight. I guess I’m free.”
“She is!” Reagan said cheerfully from the background. “Zach and I are gonna pig out on popcorn and watch romantic comedies.”
There was an exaggerated groan from somewhere else in the distance, which made Graham smile. “Okay, so, I’ll see you soon?”
“Fifteen or twenty, I’d guess.” She hung up without another word.
Thanks, dipshit. Now she thinks I orchestrated the whole thing.
Anytime. You two both need a kick in the ass.
He locked his phone and rolled his eyes, then stood to figure out exactly how much food prep he could accomplish in fifteen minutes.
*
AS Graham let Kara into the house, she sniffed appreciatively. “Smells . . . wow. Smells great.”
He gave her a smile as she left her bag on the love seat and followed him back to the kitchen. “Simple spaghetti. I’d thought about grilling, but when I didn’t hear from you, I never marinated the steaks. So it’s not as good as it could have been. Nothing to get excited about.”
“It’s a meal I didn’t have to cook. I’m sorry, but I’ll get excited and you’ll just have to tolerate it.” She hopped up onto a stool and watched as he worked, using a spoon to mix something in a bowl. “I see sauce on the stove, so what’s in the bowl?”
“Your project.” He set it in front of her, taking her fingers and wrapping them gently around the spoon. When she looked down, she saw frothy melted butter. “Italian spices, garlic, salt and pepper. It’s for the garlic bread. Season it however you want, and I’ll brush it on and toast the bread.”
“Trusting. For all you know, I could be a total garlic fiend.” Her smile was mischievous as she reached for the powder. “You wouldn’t want to be within a hundred yards of me.”
“I’ll always want to be near you, Kara.” He dropped that quiet bombshell like a rapper dropping the mic, then turned to the stove to stir the sauce.
“Oh,” she breathed out, then, with shaking hands, picked up the first seasoning and started sprinkling. She tried to speak, but nothing came out so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Reagan told me you didn’t know she was coming over.”
“I had no clue. Greg and Brad’s lives have become almost dangerously boring, so they’ve taken to meddling with mine.” He glanced over his shoulder quickly before turning his attention back to the stove. “I can’t complain though, since the result was you coming for dinner.”
She’d had a moment of doubt, as Reagan had shown up and insisted she go out for dinner—but not before changing out of her sweats and fixing her hair. Dinner with Graham was bad enough. Dinner at his home, with no servers, other patrons or the bustle of restaurant chatter to act as a buffer was too intimate to think about.
Then she’d realized this was her chance. The opportunity she’d needed to explain exactly why she’d played hard to get on accident. Why he needed to give up the idea of pursuing her and move on to someone he could make a life with.
Whoever that lucky bitch was.
Not very Zen of you, Kara.
Who cares? Thanks to Henry, she was once again missing out on life.
Graham took the bowl back from her and used a brush to coat a loaf of French bread he’d obviously pre-sliced. Sticking that under the broiler, he drained the pasta in the sink. “Should be about five minutes.”
“Italian, hmm.” Propping her chin on her hands, she watched with appreciation. Just because she couldn’t make a meal out of him didn’t mean she wasn’t allowed to fully consider the menu. “Who taught you to cook?”
“It’s boiled pasta and a simple red sauce.”
“Which a lot of guys would not be able to handle. And girls. Takeout is too prevalent today. Give yourself a little credit.”
He nodded, checked on the bread, then stood again. “My yaya taught me.”
“Yaya . . . grandma?”
“Yup, on my dad’s side. Born and raised in Greece, then came over here when my dad was about ten. Just her, her six kids—”