7. Celina

SEVEN

CELINA

What the hell was wrong with me? Why had I done that? I'd asked Miles over for dinner, and at the same time, made a total fool out of myself. I'd shut the door in his face—not once, but twice. God, how stupid was I? I leaned my forehead against the door, contemplating a last-minute move to Spain. Was there a good convent in Spain? There had to be. Or maybe India? I could join…what the hell did they have in India? Were there such things like Hindu convents? A Buddhist monastery, maybe? Were women allowed to join those? I made a mental note to research it in case I ever needed it for a book.

Groaning with embarrassment, I turned away from the door and went to the kitchen. I had no idea what to make for dinner. I was no Gordon Ramsey, but I was a pretty good cook. However, I was not good at creating a meal on the spot. Since I'd left all my cookbooks back home, the internet would have to provide today.

I scrolled through a dozen websites, and while I tried to figure out what to make for Miles, I let my mind drift into the many thoughts in my head. One of those thoughts was how I was supposed to act during this dinner. Having meals with guys was not something I did. After an initial meet-and-greet, most men ran for the hills. I was attractive—I had eyeballs and a mirror— but I was also painfully shy and weird. I wasn't ashamed of that, but it hindered romance.

Most of my sexual experience came from a battery-operated friend in my nightstand drawer. It got the job done, but it didn't ease the loneliness. I'd seen plenty of movies and read thousands of books, which meant I understood the gist of how a dinner date was supposed to go, but the experience was the best way to learn. I was nearly thirty and relying on John Hughes movies and Danielle Steel novels for my dating knowledge.

The strange thing about Miles was that he didn't seem to care when I made a fool of myself. Earlier, after I'd slammed the door in his face the first time, all he did was smile. That smile was…whew, it made me wet even thinking about it. As of now, he seemed okay with me being a klutz. We'd have to see how he reacted when he was alone with me for an hour.

I put my phone down and decided I'd make him something I was familiar with. Feijoada, a Brazilian dish I learned to make once I found out about my heritage. It was delicious but labor-intensive. It usually took twenty-four hours to make it the traditional way, but when I moved in, I noticed a pressure cooker in one of the cabinets. That should be able to get it done in a few hours.

I'd spent my entire childhood having no idea where I came from. I couldn't even remember my mother's face, which was understandable since I'd only been four when she gave me away. When I hit sixteen and was able to get my birth certificate from the state, I dived head-first into learning about my history. Food, culture—everything. I found out my parents' names, which wasn't much, but it had been a start. The first time I cooked feijoada, I felt like my ancestors were there in the kitchen with me.

The Scottish food hadn't been nearly as exciting. Haggis, neeps, and tatties weren't as scrumptious as I'd anticipated. The cranachan dessert had been a pleasant surprise, though. I contemplated making that to go with dinner tonight, but quickly decided against it.

The feijoada was made with pork, which gave me a mini panic attack. What if he was Jewish or Muslim and didn't eat pork? God, that would be mortifying. Or what if he was a vegetarian or vegan? Surely, he would have said something when agreeing to dinner, right? Lord, I'd have to just go with it. Otherwise, I'd paralyze myself with indecision and end up ordering pizza in five hours.

I'd only gotten back from the store an hour ago, but I needed a pork butt and black beans. I grabbed my purse and headed for the store, making sure to take my car. I didn't want yet another shopping bag scenario to deal with.

The store was busier than it had been when I'd come in earlier, so my already escalated anxiety shot up another couple of degrees. Resolved to zip in and out as fast as I could, I grabbed a bag of dried black beans and some ripe plantains to caramelize for dessert, then I headed to the meat section.

The pickings were a little slim. They had plenty of pork tenderloin, but it wasn't fatty enough. Maybe I could make it with chicken thighs? Miles had probably never had the dish. Would he really know the difference? Everyone liked chicken, right? My brain went ahead and formed a horrifying scenario.

"Thanks for coming over, Miles. I made feijoada. It's a Brazilian dish."

"Uh, I know. I'm a professor of Brazilian studies at the university. This isn't traditional feijoada. Where's the pork?"

"Oh…um…well ? —"

"Okay, I'm leaving. This is so disappointing. Please don't talk to me again. Or look at me. Also, you're an idiot. Thanks. Bye."

I groaned and rubbed my temple, trying to hold off the headache that was trying to form.

"Are you okay?"

The voice caused me to jump. The bag of beans flew from my hand and landed on a pile of packaged bacon. "Oh," I yelped.

A lovely young woman held her hands up and smiled. "Sorry to scare you. Looked like you were on the verge of a meltdown there. Thought I could help."

Crap, had I been that obvious? How many other people had seen me losing my shit while staring at the dead animal parts? "Thanks. I was trying to figure out how to make feijoada with chicken instead of pork. Not that any of that would make sense to you. Sorry, I'm rambling."

A surprised grin bloomed on her face. Her smile was gorgeous. "Feijoada? Are…are you Brazilian?"

I frowned. "Actually, yes. Well, fifty percent anyway. My name is Celina Santos."

"Oh my gosh! I'm Brazilian, too." She extended a hand. "Felicity Cruz."

I shook her hand and wondered what the odds were of two Brazilians meeting up in a boutique grocery store in the middle-of-nowhere Colorado.

Felicity leaned down and grabbed a pork loin and a pack of the bacon my beans had fallen on. "If that's what you're making, pork is the only way to go. Use the bacon to make it tastier. Everything is better with bacon, right?"

Bacon would get the fatty deliciousness into the dish. I wished I'd thought of it. I took both packs and smiled at her. "Thanks. I think all I needed was someone to go ahead and make the decision for me."

"I miss the traditional foods. I haven't had any since I got to town," Felicity said.

"It's not a big cultural hub, is it? Lilly Valley is pretty small."

"Right?" She nodded. "Come on, let's finish shopping."

She hooked her arm over my elbow and started walking through the store. The physical contact startled me. I had a sudden fear that she might be a lesbian and was hitting on me. I didn't lean that way, but there was no way I'd have the guts to say anything. Thankfully, as we went down the bread aisle, she started talking about dumping her last boyfriend. I relaxed, relieved to not have to live through the awkwardness of turning down a date. Christ, knowing myself, I probably would have agreed and gone on the date to avoid having an uncomfortable moment.

We spent almost a half hour strolling through the store. Felicity was a chatterbox, which was nice. I wasn't a talker, but she carried the conversation almost singlehandedly. She made it relaxing and organic. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had such a long exchange. It had probably been with Tiffany a few months ago when I submitted my outline for the new book.

By the time we got to the checkout line, I was actually enjoying myself. Felicity was funny, smart, and intriguing. She had a magnetism that appealed to me.

"Do you want to give me your number? We can get together sometime?" Felicity said.

A flush of heat shot from my chest to my cheeks. "Um, yeah. Sure."

As we exchanged numbers, I wondered what it was about this little town. I'd met more people in the last week than I'd met in the last year in the city. Perhaps the fresh air made everyone more willing to start up conversations.

"We need to hang out soon," Felicity said. "I'll text you? Cool?"

I grabbed my groceries and nodded. A real nod, one that I actually meant, a nod that told her I did want to hang out. "Of course, yeah. I can't wait."

She headed for her car, waving and smiling at me as she went. I simply stood in the parking lot for a minute. What a strange little town this was. After I watched Felicity pull away, I went to my car and went back home.

It was only a little after noon when I started making dinner, but I wanted everything ready in advance. It would be too humiliating not to be done by seven when I told him it would be ready. The good thing about the dish was that it could stay warm on the stove once it was ready and be as good as it was fresh—anything that limited the stress I was under.

It took an hour to get everything prepped, sliced, peeled, and ready. The pressure cooker would be able to cook the meat and beans in an hour. That meant I had a long break to write before starting the real cooking. I snatched my laptop and sat at the window overlooking the apartment's tiny balcony. It would have been nice to sit outside, but it was way too cold. Winter had pretty much already come to Lilly Valley, it seemed.

Writing let me push all the chaotic thoughts out of my mind. Everything that had been weighing on me vanished, and I found myself lost in the world I was creating. A world of superpowers, sexy guys, love, and danger. Luckily, I'd set a timer because I could totally zone out while writing. The last thing I wanted was for Miles to knock on my door, startle me out of my story, and find me still not showered or dressed. The food was still raw in the fridge. The buzzer on my phone snapped me to attention, and I glanced at the clock. Four-thirty, time to get started.

I threw most of the ingredients into the pressure cooker and turned it on, then I made a simple chopped salad and set it in the fridge before going to the shower. I spent five minutes deciding on whether or not to wash my hair—far too long to worry about something so trivial, but that was who I was. I washed it, then freaked out when it took forever to dry. I really needed to get a new hairdryer, but all the years in foster care had made me frugal to a fault. Living your whole life wearing hand-me downs and donated clothes and never having new toys, shoes, or books, tended to cause mental scarring. I was still working through that.

Naked, I stood in front of the mirror and studied my body. Not that I thought Miles would see me like this. The thought alone made my face go red. Were my boobs too small? What if he liked small boobs? Did guys actually like small boobs? I was so pale, ugh. Did I have time to find a spray tan place? Maybe I could put make-up on my whole upper body to give myself some color? No, that was stupid. What was wrong with me? I turned and looked over my shoulder at my ass. At least that was decent. Maybe I'd be lucky, and he was a butt guy.

It was a physical effort getting my mind to stop deconstructing my reflection. If I'd continued on that path, I'd soon be wondering if he'd notice my pinky toes were too small, or that my right earlobe was a half millimeter higher than my left. Gritting my teeth, I went about getting dressed and putting makeup on.

The pressure cooker timer went off at six. Once the pressure valve was done releasing, I took the lid off and groaned in pleasure at the aroma of the food. That was the moment I realized I hadn't eaten anything the entire day. I guess there were worse things you could have for breakfast. Using a wooden spoon, I took a sample bite and was thrilled that it tasted perfect. I set the pressure cooker to keep the stew warm and went to work on the plantains.

My nerves escalated As the clock on the stove crept closer to seven. Part of me was excited to have a dinner guest. The other part was terrified of having him over. I tried to remind myself that it was only dinner with a neighbor. My incredibly hot neighbor, yes, but still only a neighbor. This was nothing more than, like, a cocktail hour. Two strangers getting to know each other. That was all. As I finished dinner, I repeated that mantra in my head.

I arranged the salad bowl on the counter along with the platter of sweet fried plantains and the stew, which I'd ladled into a bowl. This was too much for a not-date. Shit . Would he look at this and run for the hills? Should I have just done something simple? Spaghetti and meatballs? Taco night? As my thoughts spiraled out of control, the doorbell rang. I spun and stared at the door.

"Fuck," I murmured as my heart started jackhammering. A small part of my mind begged me not to answer the door.

I ignored it, walked over, undid the latch, and opened the door. Holy hell. Walking talking sex stood outside my door. I gaped as I took him in. He'd dressed up for the occasion. He wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up his forearms. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone, and I could see his rippling chest muscles peeking through. His jeans hugged his legs perfectly. His short beard looked freshly trimmed, and I caught the whiff of the most amazing cologne I'd ever smelled in my life. It was like he'd walked right out of my dreams.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Shit, how long had I been staring at him slack-jawed like that? I shook my head and plastered a smile on my face. "Sorry, yeah. Um, come on in."

He held up two bottles as he stepped inside. "I wasn't sure if you liked wine. I brought white and red."

"Oh, I do. Like wine, I mean. What else would I mean?" I clenched my jaws before I could ramble any further.

"Okay, let's put the white in the fridge…"

"Sure." That was good. Short, sweet sentences. Preferably one syllable. No way to embarrass myself that way.

I put the white wine in my fridge and set the bottle of red on the counter. Miles glanced over at the food and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. "Wow. This smells amazing."

"Thanks. I still need to make the dressing for the salad, but the rest is ready. If you want, you can make yourself at home at the table," I said, then like an idiot blurted, "I hope you like meat."

He looked at me over his shoulder and grinned. "Oh, I definitely do. You could say I'm a carnivore at heart."

I swallowed hard, and stifled a sigh when I saw that grin. Something about it spoke volumes. The problem was that it was written in a language I was unfamiliar with. He looked hungry, but not for food. Or was I misreading it? A flush crept across my chest, and I hurriedly started making the vinaigrette. As I worked, I repeated to myself that I needed to try and not make a fool out of myself.