Taking Turns (Turning #1)(87)

“Christmas Eve Eve dinner, Marcella. It was a tradition in my adoptive house.”

“Hmm,” I say, pulling out one of the barstools and taking a seat. “What do you cook for a Christmas Eve Eve dinner?”

“Traditional Baldwin etiquette says a whole bunch of pretentious bullshit only a chef can make, like crown roast or leg of lamb.”

“That sounds good!” I say. “I’m starving!”

“Chella,” Smith says, shooting me a sidelong look as he slips his hands into potholders. “I’m Smith. I made mac and cheese.”

I laugh. “That sounds good too.” He opens the oven and takes out a casserole dish, gingerly setting it down on a trivet to protect my countertops. “You do realize that what you’re doing right now is lady porn?”

Smith smiles but doesn’t look at me. “Cooking?” he asks.

“And vacuuming. If you really want to turn me on, you’d vacuum the whole house. And dust. Bonus points for using lemon-scented wood polish.”

“You’re funny, Marcella Walcott.”

“OK,” I say, tucking down my smile. “So what’s all this about? Since when do you cook? And hey—did you… clean up your mess on the dining room table?”

He glares at me. “Your f*cking father showing up got me all paranoid that someone else will come over unexpectedly.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Your friends, maybe? I don’t do friends, Chella. I don’t do fathers either. But I had no choice.”

I lean over the island and grab a breadstick from a basket. “I’m sorry you had to see all that. And I’m sorry I was moody last night. You were really perfect, Smith. And I appreciate it.”

“So you’re over it?” he asks, then dips a fork in his mac and cheese and takes a bite. “It’s good,” he says, putting the fork down and going to the cupboard for plates. “I didn’t think you’d be so calm about it tonight, to be honest.”

“Is that why you’re cooking? To make me feel better?”

He walks over to the small kitchenette table next to the living room and sets the plates down. “Maybe a little. I guess. But mostly because I got it out of Quin that your family never celebrated Christmas.” He stops to shoot me a pretend glare. “I owe him something big for that secret, I hope you know that.”

“Then why didn’t you just let it go?” I ask, chewing on my breadstick. “Is this homemade?”

Smith glares at me again and I can’t stop the chuckle that escapes.

“I mean”—he continues his thought—“even I had a Christmas every year. And since Quin beat me to a tree, I figured I’d go for food.” He comes back into the kitchen and grabs the silverware and some white linen napkins, folded into the envelope design, like at the Club.

“Did you bring… fancy napkins from the Club?”

“You don’t have any,” he says, like this explains everything. “How could a woman with your breeding not have linen napkins? How can I possibly write you a Christmas Eve Eve message on a paper towel?”

Oh, shit. He’s really trying to make me happy tonight. A message on a napkin. I take a moment to think about his other messages so far. The first one had his number on it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, it said. And the poem on the second one. The one about going into the dark without a light.

“What else do people do on Christmas Eve Eve?” I ask.

“Not much. My big plans are for tomorrow. We have a party to go to, Chella.”

“Oh, now your name is Bric.”

“Not that kind of party,” he says, shooting me a sidelong look. “The fun kind. At the Club.”

“Hmmm,” I say, thinking that over. “Saturday night at the Club sounds dangerous.”

“I’m not telling you anything else. It’s a surprise.”

“And Bric and Quin know about this?”

“They do,” he says.

“And they’re OK with me being there for a Saturday night party?”

He winks at me. “You’re a fun girl, Marcella. Why wouldn’t they be OK with it?”

“Hmm,” I say again. “Now you’ve got me curious. What kind of fun times are we talking about?”

“No clues,” he says. “It’s a surprise.” He grabs a bottle of champagne from the counter and pops the cork, then fills two glasses. He hands me one and raises his—seemingly at a loss for words.

“What should we toast to?” I ask to break the silence. He’s just staring at me with a look I can’t describe. Thoughtful? Confused? I’m not sure.

“To us,” he says. “We should toast to us.”

“You know, this relationship I have with you is coming dangerously close to dating.”

“Aren’t we dating?” he asks.

“Are we dating?” My eyebrows shoot up my forehead.

“We’re living together.”

“Are we?”

We both laugh.

“I guess it’s a little confusing, isn’t it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“You’re full of questions tonight, Marcella.”