White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) (8 page)

Walking to work, I make a point to notice some heads turning. It makes me feel good even though I won’t do anything about it. The new Skylar doesn’t do hookups.

I smile to myself when Trent gives me a low whistle as I pass by the bar on the way to the back.

“Whoa!” Mindy stops in her tracks to stare at my boobs. “Where did those babies come from? You look incredible, Skylar. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” I say. “It’s something Erin bought me and she said I should wear it. That’s all.”

“Can you ask her to outfit me, too?” she jokes. “Because you could seriously get any man you wanted wearing that number.”

I roll my eyes at her exaggeration while I inventory the morning deliveries.

“Hey, speaking of Erin,” Mindy says, “she called earlier to set up a cooking lesson for Griffin.”

I stiffen. I can’t look at Mindy. If I do, she’ll see my flushed face. The last person I need to think about right now is Griffin Pearce.

I nonchalantly ask, “And?”

“And she asked if you were busy today at three. I checked your schedule and you’re free,” she says. “So Griffin is coming then.” I can feel her eyes bore into the back of my head.

“Today?” I chide myself for speaking two octaves above my normal range. I look at my watch and then up at Mindy. “As in, he’s coming in a few hours?”

“Yeah. Why, is that a problem?” A smile creeps up her face, turning into a full-on smirk.

“Problem? Uh, no. But—”

“But what?” She raises a devious brow. “But you were screaming his name in bed last night. Is
that
the problem?”

I’m certain the blood drains from my face.

Thankfully, Jarod, our new waiter, comes in the back to tell Mindy she has a new table. She winks at me and heads out front.

I spend the next few hours thinking of an excuse to call and cancel. I have Griffin’s number programmed into my phone for baby emergencies. I could simply text him and tell him we got slammed here, or that a waiter called in sick and I need to cover. Anything to move his lesson to some other day.
Any
other day where I hadn’t just orgasmed from dreaming of him.

I vow to send a text when I’m done talking to Trent. Well, I’m talking to Trent—Trent is talking to my boobs. After he tells me what to put on today’s liquor order, he nods to a nearby table. “You expecting someone, boss?”

Even before I turn around, I know he’s here. There is a crackle in the air. It causes the fine hairs on my neck to stand at attention. The oxygen exits my body and my heart rate goes up.

I turn around to see Griffin sitting at the same high-top where he sat the day we met. And like that day, and every day I’ve seen him since, he sports the same dark-as-night stubble on his face. A manly sprinkling of coarse hair along his jaw that has me wondering if he ever uses a razor.

I can barely look at him, let alone into his eyes. The man gave me an earth-shattering orgasm last night. Hell, I practically needed a cigarette afterward. I can’t ever remember coming that hard before. I’m sure I’m three shades of red when I finally convince my feet to walk the ten steps over to his table.

“I know I’m early,” he says. “But I just finished a job nearby. I can wait here until you’re ready.”

I look out into the main room. There are still quite a few tables occupied. I try to think of a way to get out of this. I could go tell Mindy to fake being sick. But then I’d have a lot of explaining to do later at home. Plus, this seems to be important to Erin so I’ll have to do it sooner or later. I might as well start now.

“Trent can get you a drink,” I say. “Before we get started, I’ll have to make sure most of the orders are ready and we’ve finished prepping our catering bids for the day.” I turn to Trent. “Get him a drink on me. I’ll be back in a few.”

I go to the kitchen to see it winding down after the lunch rush. How am I going to get through this? I go in my office and, on my laptop, I pull up a few simple recipes I can teach him. I settle on lasagna. I print it out and quickly use the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, I’m reminded of what I’m wearing. Of what Erin insisted I wear today. Today—the day she sends her husband in for a cooking lesson. Sometimes I wonder if she’s got her head screwed on right. Is she testing him? Me? I take a few deep breaths. I can do this. I simply need to focus on the cooking. As long as I don’t look at him, it’ll be fine.

I grab a few things on my way back to the bar. I put them down on Griffin’s table. “First things first,” I say. “You can choose between a hat and a hair net.” He picks the Mitchell’s ball cap I offered. “And you need to wear a chef’s coat or an apron.” He chooses the ‘Eat at Mitchell’s’ apron.

He follows me back to the kitchen. “How does this thing go on?” he asks, fumbling with the long straps of the apron.

I laugh when I look at him. The man has no idea how to put on an apron. I take it from him. I lean in and slip it over his head. When I do, I realize my mistake. Getting this close to him—smelling him—is not a good idea. It’s causing some kind of visceral reaction in my body that I don’t seem to have any control over. I reach around his back, crossing the straps, bringing them around to his front. Our faces come close. Too close. I realize I’m practically hugging the man and when I unwittingly look into his steely eyes, my stomach flutters. I momentarily wonder if it’s the baby moving, but I remember Erin telling me it would probably be another month before I could feel that.

Griffin is keeping a respectable distance, with his arms held out to the side, giving me room to work. I try not to think about the fact that he is draped in Mitchell. He looks damn good with my name all over him. I close my eyes while I finish tying the apron.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re not still sick are you?”

I shake my head. “No. Not for a few weeks now.” I take a few steps away from him, over to where I keep my own cooking uniform. My body relaxes a little at the distance between us. I put my apron and hat on, take another deep breath and turn back around.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. He’s looking at the apron I’m wearing. I wear it so often, I sometimes forget what it says. It has a picture of a cartoon pig and says ‘Every Butt Loves a Rub.’ I look down at it and feel the heat coming up my face.

Then he eyes my ball cap. “Yankees, huh?”

“Well, I did grow up thirty minutes from here. Plus, my friend, Jenna, is engaged to their batting coach, Jake Hanson.”

“I’ll let it slide, since I know you have to wear a hat in the kitchen,” he says, mocking irritation. “But I’ll have you know, if I see you wearing that on the street, all bets are off.”

“Not a fan?” I ask.

“I grew up in Ohio,” he says. “Indians all the way.”

I feel a twinge inside my heart. I wonder if he’s as big a baseball fan as I am. Growing up, my dad would take me and my sisters to Yankees games one at a time. It was his way of bonding with us individually. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from those games. It makes me smile thinking that maybe Griffin will do something like that with his kid.

“You know, Jake could probably get you some good seats when they play here, if you want me to ask.”

His face lights up. “Really? That would be fantastic.” He eyes me skeptically. “Wait, he wouldn’t make me wear Yankees crap, would he?”

Laughing, I say, “Well, if Jenna comes, she’ll probably spit on you if you aren’t.”

He contemplates this. “I don’t think I could, in good conscience, wear anything but Indians garb.”

I nod, understanding loyalty to sports teams. “I could try to get you tickets to a game when Jenna is working.”

“Aww, that’d be great!”

The sincere smile on his face makes the skin of his eyes crinkle. He looks almost childlike and for a brief second I wonder if the kid I’m carrying will look like him.

I nod towards the kitchen door. “You ready to get started?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Hey, thanks for doing this. I know Erin strong-armed us both into it.”

“It’s not a problem,” I tell him. “Besides, have you
met
your wife? She’s kind of hard to say no to.”

He laughs. “You have no idea,” he says, shaking his head.

We spend the next half hour gathering supplies, boiling homemade lasagna noodles, browning Italian sausage and hamburger, and putting ingredients into a pot of sauce.

“So, what kind of job did you have earlier?” I ask.

He stirs the sauce exactly like I showed him. “It was for Vogue. Their regular photographer got held up in L.A., so they called me in. I’ve done stuff for them before.”

“Vogue, really?” I try not to sound too impressed, but I totally am. “What did you shoot?”

“It was a Valentine’s Day spread,” he tells me.

“Isn’t it kind of early for that, like six months early?”

“That’s how far out they shoot them,” he says.

“It must be pretty great for a guy like you to be surrounded by hot models all the time,” I say.

“Nah, not really,” he says, shrugging it off. “Most of them get Photoshopped anyway. They’ve got nothing on Erin and you.”

I give him my ‘have you grown a third arm?’ look.

“What?” he says. “It’s true. You and Erin could both be models.”

“Erin could be a model,” I say. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Skylar,” he says. “You’re very beautiful, too. You are much more natural than the models I shoot. They’re all anorexic. You are real. And that dress you have on today, it really brings out the green in your eyes. You really look great.”

I smirk when he quickly averts his eyes from the cleavage that still shows above my apron. I grab a disposable tasting spoon and reach into the pan to take another bite of sausage.

Griffin eyes me. “You’re going to get fat eating that much meat,” he jokes. “Isn’t that like your millionth taste?”

My jaw drops. “I know you didn’t just call out a pregnant woman for eating,” I scold him.

“I was teasing,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Do you not read any of the books Erin buys for you?” I spit at him. “I mean, it’s Pregnancy 101: don’t call a pregnant woman fat.”

“I wasn’t calling you fat,” he says, shaking his head. “I said you would
get
fat if you kept eating. There’s a difference. I wasn’t sure you were aware of the fact that you’d eaten half the sausage.”

“Ugh!” I pout, stomping my foot. He just did it again. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t actually say those exact words,” I say. “It still makes me feel self-conscious. I mean, imagine you were going to get fatter than you’ve ever been, but you couldn’t do anything to stop it. And then someone points out how much you eat.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It won’t happen again. For Christ’s sake, Sky, you’re thin and healthy. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it.”

I throw the spoon into the trash with so much force that it bounces back out. “Skylar,” I say. “My name is Skylar. Not Sky.”

“Geez,
Skylar
,” he says, putting emphasis on my name. He walks over and picks the spoon up off the floor, depositing it back into the trash. “Those pregnancy hormones are really doing a number on you.”

My lips come together, forming a thin line as my eyes spit fire. What a jackass. I can’t believe
this
man made me come in my dreams. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

“Don’t say fuck,” he says.

“I’ll say fuck if I want to say fuck,” I bellow out, causing my kitchen staff to stop and watch our exchange. “First you tell me how hot I am, even though you’re married—to my best friend, I might add. Then you say I’m fat, and now I’m hormonal? Griffin, you’re batting a fucking thousand today.”

He comes close and whispers through gritted teeth into my ear. “Will. You. Please. Stop. Saying. Fuck?” Each word a staccato that has his hot breath flowing over my neck. I almost have to leave the kitchen. Pissed off Griffin is even hotter than regular Griffin.

He pulls away and tries to speak so only I can hear. “Listen, Skylar,” he says quietly, holding me in place with his stare. “First of all, Erin told me to compliment you. She said pregnant women feel ugly and I should tell you that you’re pretty. I’m trying to make her happy. I’m trying to make
you
happy. Hell, she’s as hormonal as you are. She cries at the drop of a hat these days.
You
should feel sorry for
me
. I have two women to handle.”

“Handle?” I ask. “This is you handling me? And Erin told you to say that shit?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He throws up his hands in defeat. “Cut me some slack here. I’ve never done this before. Yes, Erin told me to compliment you, but I meant every word. You
are
beautiful. And I should be able to say that without you thinking I want to have sex with you, Skylar. Not every man wants to bed a gorgeous woman, you know.”

Gorgeous. He thinks I’m gorgeous? Or did Erin tell him to say that, too? “Listen, can we just get through this lesson?” I ask. I can’t decide if I’m more pissed that Erin told him to compliment me or that he doesn’t really see me that way.

He nods. “Yeah.”

We only talk food for the next hour while we layer and then bake the lasagna. While it’s cooking, I show him how to make garlic bread and throw together a simple salad. When we’re wrapping it all up for him to take home, I tell him, “You should take Erin some flowers along with dinner.”

He silently nods. I wonder if he’s scared that I might bite his head off again. I make a mental note to ask Mindy if pregnancy has turned me into a bitch, or if Griffin Pearce has.

“White lilies,” I say. “They’re her favorite.”

“I know what my wife’s favorite flower is, Skylar,” he says petulantly.

I ignore his sour mood. “You know she thinks the bean is a boy, right?” I ask.

A small smile flashes across his face and I wonder if he secretly wants it to be a boy. “Yeah, she told me about the flower thing,” he says. “What do
you
think?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I think I just prefer white flowers to red roses.”

I see another hesitant smile creep up his face at my comment. I gather that, like me, he’s not into the whole ‘fate’ thing like Erin is.