I rush into my room and go about fixing the horror show that is my face and hair, throwing on a fresh pair of jeans and a newish top too. As I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and use two tablespoons of toothpaste to try and vanquish my horrible jambalaya breath, I make my plan.
Don’t worry, Jenny, you can do this. You can make him forget what he witnessed before. Just distract him with witty repartee and amazing facts you’ve learned from watching a hundred hours of Animal Planet with the kids, and he’ll forget that you looked like the bride of Frankenstein when he first got here.
Yeah. Nothing will go wrong with this plan. It’s totally solid.
CHAPTER TEN
After taking and releasing a few deep breaths at the top of the stairs, I walk down very calmly. My hair looks decent, I’ve got enough makeup on to cover the worst of my flaws, and I’ve used half a tube of toothpaste. My tooth enamel may be in trouble now, but I’m determined to erase Dev’s most recent memory of me looking and smelling like a zombie who had just finished eating someone’s brain. Now that I’ve had my super-speedy makeover, I’m ready to face the man who makes my heart go pitter-patter, and I will not freak myself out by imagining that this is a date.
The smell of pepperoni hits me as I reach the last stair. “You already got the pizzas?”
Dev is sitting on the couch with three pizza boxes stacked up in front of him. He grins at me as I enter the room. “Yep.”
“You’ll have to give me the name of the place where you ordered from. I can never get anyone here in less than thirty minutes.”
Dev looks at his watch. “You’ve been gone for forty-five.”
I look at my wrist and frown. “Nooo . . . All I did was change my clothes.”
He lifts up the lid on one of the boxes of pizza. “Whatever you say.”
I stand there in the middle of my family room, trying to decide if I should keep fighting this losing battle, or just admit defeat. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that I put in a little effort. He’s lifting out a slice of pizza, his mouth already partly open in expectation of shoving it in.
“What would you like to drink?” I ask, giving up on the charade. It’s just common courtesy not to have someone over for pizza looking like a Yoda bat, right?
He pauses with the tip of his pizza triangle at the edge of his mouth, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “I also bought a couple liters of soda that I put in the other room. Help yourself.”
“Would you like some?”
“Sure. I’ll have some wine, too.” He winks at me. “Going to get my drink on.”
I try not to smile. “Don’t you have to drive?”
He folds the pizza long-ways, eating half of it in one bite as he shrugs. Now his mouth is too full to respond.
I shrug as I turn toward the kitchen. He doesn’t seem worried about it, so I’m not going to fret. If I think he’s had too much to drink, I’ll call him a cab. But the fact that he’s seven feet tall and he’s about to eat three pizzas tells me I probably don’t have to be concerned about his blood-alcohol level. He’d probably have to drink that entire bottle of wine for it to affect his ability to drive.
I make quick work of getting two icy glasses of soda and a second bottle of wine, bringing them out to the family room so that I can sit down and watch him ingest more food than I previously thought humanly possible. Putting the glasses down on the table next to the pizza boxes, I choose a spot two cushions away from my guest. Any closer and I’d be making a move on him.
He flips up a box top for me. Two other pieces are already missing. The man has eaten three pieces of pizza in less than five minutes. Impressive. I love cooking for people who like to eat. The idea of inviting him for dinner sometime jumps into my head, but I quash it immediately. No need to get ahead of myself. Besides, he’s a Bourbon Street Boob.
“Help yourself,” he says. “It’s pretty good, actually.”
I was thinking I was going to say no when he offered, but when the scents of the melted mozzarella and the delicious, greasy pepperoni hit me, I can’t do it. “Okay. But just one.”
“It’s been hours since we ate last. You should be hungry again. Have two or three.” He pauses and turns to look at me, waiting for my answer.
I reach into the box and gingerly pull a slice out. “I think I’d better stick with one. I have a bit of a love affair with carbs, but carbs don’t particularly love me, so I try to avoid them when I can.”
“I think I’d fall into the deepest depression known to man if I couldn’t enjoy my carbs,” Dev says. He folds his crust and puts the entire thing in his mouth. His cheeks bulge out as he chews.
After seeing that, I’m not nearly as worried about being ladylike as I was two seconds ago. I don’t think he’s one to appreciate or expect someone to eat like they’re at a tea party with the president’s wife. I shrug, feeling more comfortable in his presence. “I’m sure with the workout schedule you have, you could eat as many carbs as you wanted and they’d all just burn off the minute they hit your stomach.”