Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (The Hawke Family Book 1) (11 page)

Flustered by his directness, I shake my head while I try to collect my thoughts. This is a truly gorgeous, funny, sweet, filthy-mouthed man who wants to cook dinner for me.

Of course you are staying! What the hell is wrong with you for even considering leaving?

“No, I don’t want to leave. You promised me dinner.”

Grinning at me, he turns toward the kitchen. “If you are staying, I’m putting you to work.”

Following me into the kitchen, the click-click-click of her heels on the hardwood floors is hard to ignore. I have a feeling she may be taking those off soon. I glance over my shoulder to find her leaning against the doorframe, her eyes wide and jaw practically on the floor as her eyes sweep the room.

“Holy shit. This looks like a professional restaurant kitchen…if all the chefs were midgets.” Her eyes flicker to mine, and she slaps her hand over her mouth again.

I want to fuck with her and pretend her comment offended me, but I can tell she’s really worried about it. In all truth, I find her apparent inability to process what she says before she says it refreshing and endearing. It means she’s always pretty honest and she doesn’t take the time to create a lie in her head before words tumble from those pouty lips. That will be important if this relationship is going to go anywhere.

You’re just lucky she’s still here. Not telling her was a real dick move and she has every right to be pissed.

Grinning at her, I run my hand along the island countertop. “Yeah, I had this whole place custom built for me. I knew I couldn’t return to my house when I came back to the States. It would have cost a ton, been a pain in the ass, and who knows if I would have even wanted to stay there—too much history. Gabe had already acquired the other half of this floor, so he made some calls and made sure I got this place quickly so work could start making it completely accessible. I spent a few months at my mom’s before I moved in here.”

She visibly relaxes when I fail to react to her comment and leans her hip against the counter that is way too low for her. I motion to her four-inch fuck-me pumps and smile at her. “You know, you would probably be a lot more comfortable in here if you took those things off.”

She glances down at them and raises her eyes to me, embarrassment on her face. “Sorry, I have freakishly long legs as it is, but with these on, I am more like a giraffe. I should really stay away from heels.” Reaching down, she slides them off and sets them down near the doorway before turning back to me.

“I couldn’t disagree more. You look hot as hell with those on. They make your mile-long legs look even longer; I can barely take my eyes off them.”

Blushing, she eyes me curiously. “How tall are you, anyway?”

I’m busy filling a large pot with water at the sink, but I glance over my shoulder and shrug. “Six-threeish.”

At least I used to be.

“No fucking way! Well, I guess your dad was a pretty big guy.”

“Yeah, he was almost six-five and weighed nearly two-eighty when he was fighting.” My dad was a beast. He dominated his weight class in two different boxing leagues and probably would have kept going if the aneurysm hadn’t killed him. It came out of nowhere. One minute, he was pummeling his opponent in the ring, and the next, he just stopped and dropped to the mat. He never got up again.

“What can I help with?” she asks as she watches me move around the kitchen, getting the things I need.

“In the bottom drawer of the fridge is stuff for a salad. You want to pull it out and make it?”

“Of course.” With an adorable little skip, she moves to the fridge and bends down to slide out the crisper drawer, her already-short dress riding up until I almost glimpse the sweet dip of her ass cheeks.

Damn! This woman has a body that won’t fucking quit. Down, boy!

I return my attention to the sauce that has been simmering on the stove for several hours and give it a stir. She sets something down behind me on the counter and then, in my peripheral vision, I see her grab a knife from the butcher block. Anticipating her next question, I turn around and reach into one of the cabinets below the island, pulling out a cutting board and setting it on the counter in front of her.

She grins at me, and I see some of the tension and unease leave her body. My heart thuds irregularly in my chest, and I have to turn back to the stove and unnecessarily stir the sauce again so she doesn’t see how much she affects me.

“What are you making?” she asks as she begins chopping the salad ingredients.

“Chicken parm. I hope you like it.”

“Oh, I love chicken parm. It’s one of my go-to orders whenever I go out for Italian.”

“Well, I hope mine stands up.” I pull the glass baking dish that contains the already breaded and pan-fried chicken breasts from the fridge and set it on the counter next to the stove. I can feel her eyes on me, following me as I move around the kitchen. She isn’t saying much, and that worries me.

What’s she thinking? Does she want to leave and is just too polite to tell me? Should I push her into talking to me about what she’s feeling about all this?

I top the chicken with sauce and cheese and slide it into the oven before turning back to see how Danika is doing on the salad.

“How’s it coming?”

She drops sliced tomatoes into the large wooden bowl and smiles at me. “Done.”

“Good, let’s open a bottle of wine while we wait for it to finish cooking.”

“Okay.”

By the time the food is ready and we’re at the table, we’ve almost finished a bottle. I’m not a big drinker. I enjoy a whiskey, or beer, or glass of wine, but tonight, just like at Angelo’s, drinking seems to ease some of the tension between us. Tension I caused.

Shit. I have some serious making up to do.

She picks at her food, complimenting me on how good it is but barely eating anything. Her eyes flicker over to me every couple of minutes but she doesn’t say much, and I can sense her unease returning.

It’s only natural but it’s so different from the last time we had dinner. It saddens me to know I caused this. I’m the only one to blame for her discomfort and confusion, and I wish I could kick myself for not just telling her from the beginning. I might have saved both of us some heartache, and from having a really uncomfortable dinner tonight.

An awkward silence settles over the table and she fidgets with her napkin and glass, avoiding eye contact again.

She’s thinking. She’s making her list of questions. She’s too afraid or embarrassed to ask.

“Why don’t you take another bottle of wine and the glasses out onto the deck, and I will clean up and then join you?”

Her eyes flicker up to mine and the corners of her mouth turn up into a half-hearted, fake smile.

Shit. She is really uncomfortable. What the hell did you expect, dropping it on her like this?

She slides her chair back from the table and approaches me slowly. Stopping in front of me, she pauses as she reaches for my wine glass. “Are you sure you don’t need any help cleaning up?”

“Nope, I got it.” I give her a reassuring smile and hope it helps her relax, but she grabs my glass and the bottle of wine quickly and disappears toward the living room without even glancing back.

Double shit.

I clear the plates from the table and load them into the dishwasher with the baking dishes and pots before I head out to the deck. When I reach the sliding glass door, I stop and watch her.

She’s lying on one of the chaise lounges, soaking up the last of the waning light of the sunset. Her eyes are closed, face turned up toward the sky, hair blowing in the light breeze. She’s a picture of pure beauty. To anyone taking a quick glance, she might even look relaxed and peaceful; but, I know better. I see the crinkles around her eyes as she squeezes them closed, the lines around her slightly-frowning mouth, and the way she’s gripping her wine glass so hard her knuckles are white.

She doesn’t know what to do, what to say. You’ve put her in an impossible position. You’re a selfish asshole. You should have told her from day one.

Dinner sits like a lead weight at the bottom of my stomach. I take a deep breath to avoid it coming back up and open the door before moving out onto the deck.

Her eyes fly open and she turns her head in my direction. When she sees me, she looks almost panicked and the tension in the air is so thick I can feel it weighing down on me like the late summer humidity. I want to wipe the trepidation from her face, the reservation from her stare, but I don’t know how.

“Why don’t you pour me another glass?”

She nods and reaches for the bottle, slowly pouring me a glass of wine while I move from my chair onto the chaise lounge parallel to hers. I feel her eyes on me the entire time, and I know she must have a million questions by now.

Once I settle in, she hands me my glass and returns to other chaise, her body turned slightly toward me.

That’s a good sign, right?

“Ask,” I order, watching her shift anxiously in her seat.

Her head whips up and her eyes widen in surprise. “Uh, ask what?”

I smile at her and take a long sip of my wine, never looking away.

“Ask the million and one questions I know you must have but are either too afraid or embarrassed to ask. I promise you, I’ve already answered them a hundred times for other people, and you won’t offend me with anything you have questions about. I brought you into this without giving you all the information, and that wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry. So, ask. I’m an open book.”

She takes a deep breath and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it in a way that has me wishing it was my teeth there. I watch patiently as she struggles to come up with her first question.

Don’t push her. She has to do this on her own.

I take another drink of my wine, never taking my eyes off her, as she stares alternately between her bare feet and my hand wrapped around my wine glass.

“Um, so, you live alone and don’t need any help with anything?”

That isn’t the question you want to ask.

“No, I don’t need help with anything. Like I said, this place was specifically built to be handicap accessible so I wouldn’t need help. I do have a cleaning lady that comes in once a week, but, otherwise, I do everything myself.”

She seems to consider that for a moment before responding, “What about Gabe? He drives you.”

“Yes, but that isn’t because I can’t drive. I have several cars that are modified so I can drive them. It just happens that Gabe is with me most of the time anyway, so it’s easier if he drives.”

“Oh,” she says, staring at her wine before taking a long drink. I notice her hand shaking slightly as she lowers it from her lips and it fucking breaks my heart to think I’m making her that nervous.

I like her nervous, just the kind of nervous she was at our Angelo’s dinner, nervous because of the sexual tension between us.

Do something about it!

My wine glass clinks down on the table between the chaise lounges, and I extend my right hand out to her. “Come here.”

She looks at my hand, considering it for a moment before she slowly sets her glass down on the table and places her palm against mine. I gently tug her across the space between us until she falls lightly onto my lap, her bare legs dangling off the side of the chaise.