43. That Guy

43

THAT GUY

Maeve

When I walk through the door a little later, something smells good. Wait—scratch that—everything smells good. Like a dog, I lift my nose and sniff the air as I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen.

Where…

Oh god.

It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

My husband is cooking, and he’s cleaning up as he goes. Is this a dream? I walk slowly into the kitchen, practically in a trance. Or maybe I’m under the spell he’s casting.

I flash back to the coffee shop with my friends, when they gave Asher their “care and feeding instructions” for me. Keep snacks handy at all times. Maeve loves her independence, so don’t crowd her—but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t cook for her .

I’d protested, saying I didn’t need anyone cooking for me. But actually? I think I like it.

A lot.

It’s strange, though, letting someone in like this. I’m not used to having someone take care of me, not since my parents. And Asher—he’s not just cooking. He’s paying attention, knowing exactly what I need without me asking.

My heart swells. New emotions, indeed.

“Hi.” It’s not the most artful opening, but it’ll have to do. He turns around, and he’s wearing an apron that says Suck This .

I crack up. “Where did you get that apron?”

He stirs something on the stove—basmati rice, maybe? Butternut squash? Possibly curry?

“I got you a shirt that says Quick-Draw Maeve . You think I can’t find an apron to amuse you?”

I stop in my tracks. He got it to amuse me. I’m not used to men doing things like this for me—really, anyone doing things like this. I’d have to go way back to when my parents were still alive, when my mom used to send me silly photos of the dog I grew up with, posed as if she were reading my mom’s books. Mom would caption them with sayings like This is good in Woof .

And now, Asher cooking for me not only makes my stomach growl, it makes my heart feel warm and squishy. Only, I don’t know what to do with this feeling, so I ask an obvious question. “Are you cooking us dinner?”

He holds up a wooden spoon, adopting an inquisitive look. “Let’s see. There’s food on the stove, dishes on the table, and wine. I’d call that dinner. It’s a butternut squash and chickpea curry. But,” he adds, his smile widening, “I also made an appetizer. ”

“Stop. I love appetizers,” I say, maybe a little too excitedly. At least I don’t squeal. I give myself points for that.

He gives me a look like, Tell me something I don’t know . “Snacks, appetizers, dessert—yeah, I’ve got your number, Maeve Hartley.”

Hartley. I’ve always loved my last name. It’s the one my mother used on her books. It makes me feel close to her. But…when he calls me Mrs. Callahan, I feel something else. Something warm. I like it too—maybe more than I should. But I’m not going to point that out. Not now. That might be too much.

“Where’s this fabulous appetizer?”

“Here. It’s your favorite,” he says as he reaches for a white ceramic dish next to him, covered by a cloth napkin. He turns the heat down on the saucepan, strides over to me, and dramatically whips off the napkin.

“We can get to the bottom of the warm nut conspiracy.”

The hair on my arms stand on end. “You made warm nuts,” I say, like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Honestly, I think it is.

He runs his thumb over my wrist, and the heat of his touch travels all the way to my core. “What my wife wants, she gets.”

What I want...is him.

“What did you put in this?” I ask, taking another bite, savoring the rich flavors.

“Tofu, cilantro, butternut squash, and chickpeas,” he says .

It’s making my taste buds dance. “How did you know I’d like it?”

“You like chai lattes. You like hot sauce. You enjoy interesting dishes, variety, the unpredictable. But you also like cilantro, and Carlos grows it, so I picked some up from him earlier today,” he says with a knowing grin, gesturing to the herb I’m a little obsessed with.

In short—he’s paid attention. To me . He made the effort. For me. This is all so new. So foreign. “No one’s ever cooked for me before,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “I mean…in a relationship—” Crap. We’re not in a real relationship. I shouldn’t use that word. “I mean in a?—”

But he’s cooked dinner for me as a friend. We’ve had meals together with Beckett and Reina, with his teammates, and with Josie and Wesley. “I mean…well, you have. Obviously. There was the time you made enchiladas using Carlos’s family recipe, and the mushroom risotto…”

He gives me a soft smile. “I like cooking…for you.”

For you.

He’s not talking about cooking for the group. He’s talking about me. And he’s opening up to me. I should do the same. I take another bite of the delicious dish, then try again. “I guess I was saying no one has done this for me…”

“Romantically?” he suggests, his voice gentle, like he knew I needed him to finish the thought.

“Yeah, that,” I say, my chest warm from putting that word between us. It feels like it has a life of its own, a pulse, a heartbeat… romantic . “Gah. Why are words so hard?”

He laughs, the sound free and easy. “Maybe because my dinner is seducing you and stealing all your senses?”

“Clearly. And the warm nuts were more perfect than they were at five miles high. I guess we’ve solved the conspiracy,” I say, but there’s something else on my mind. The same thought from earlier with my friends still lingers. I don’t know how to act around him sometimes. But maybe there’s a way to fix it—by telling the truth. “Sometimes I feel out of place here. In your home,” I admit.

His brow furrows with concern. “What do you mean, Maeve?”

He knows my spotty romance history. He knows how Gideon left me flat on my ass. But I’ve never told him why . I didn’t want to plant that doubt in his mind, didn’t want him to see me that way.

No one likes a clingy woman. It’s the kiss of death in romance. Men want someone a little hard to get. No one would ever accuse me of being that.

I set my fork down, the weight of what I’m about to say pressing on my chest. “Gideon told me I was too clingy. He couldn’t handle all of my needs. He said he didn’t think any man ever could. And sometimes, I wonder…” I stop, my throat tightening as I force myself to take a breath. “I wonder if you’ll get tired of me. Of having me around. Even here, over the next few months.”

The words hang in the air, thin, reedy, full of raw emotion. I hate how vulnerable they make me feel.

Asher sets down his fork too, his eyes never leaving mine. They’re intense. Steady. “Maeve, I’m not that guy. And you’re not that woman. You’re not too much. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

I swallow hard. “You’re only saying that because it’s easier.”

He leans in, his gaze steady, serious. “No, I’m not. Listen to me. Hear me when I say this—I’ve known you for ten years. I’m not kicking you out, and you won’t scare me away.”

His words make my heart swell, but there’s still a part of me that needs help believing it. And maybe…this is the place to ask for it. “Just…tell me—will you let me know if I’m asking for too much? Or if you need space? Will you tell me how much is too much?”

Asher’s lips are a ruler. His eyes lock with mine. He nods solemnly. “I promise,” he says, taking my request as seriously as I mean it.

“Thank you,” I say, and it’s a relief to be understood. To be accepted.

“But you won’t be too much.”

“You can’t know that,” I say.

“I can,” he says, then reaches for my hand. “But I also hear you . So if you want to figure this out for yourself, if you want to know what’s too much, or too little, or just right, I’ll tell you.”

“Good. I want to know what you like.” I pause, hesitating on the words, or really making sure I have the right ones. The one that was hard to say moments ago. It’s not so much now. “In a relationship.”

“I can do that,” he says easily.

“Thank you.” I draw a deep breath, feeling more settled, assured. It’s the Asher effect. I’m so lucky to have someone in my life like him—someone who takes me as I am. My girlfriends do that, of course. But so does this man, and that matters to me. Which means now’s as good a time as any for the gift I made him. “I have something for you,” I say.

“You want to get naked right now?”

“Oh, I got the message loud and clear from your apron what you want. But first, this,” I say, then hustle over to my duffel bag, where I grab a little something I made for him the other night. It’s another mirror—this one with a small rectangular gilded frame with dragon scales painted on it. In the corner is a tiny painting of one of my pop art couples, kissing of course. I pause though, the frame in hand, as a pit forms in my stomach briefly, coated in the worry that he won’t want what I have to give. But I push past that uncomfortable feeling and bring the gift back to the table.

“I snuck into the tiny studio for a couple hours this week to make this. I get a little…batty if I don’t make my decorative art too. And I had this idea,” I explain, then hand the mirror to him.

His eyes gleam as he takes the gift, tracing a finger over the words I painted on. It’s the little surprises, like dragon underwear, that keep the spark alive . I watch as his fingertip follows the lines, then he looks up, locking his gaze with mine. There’s something new in his expression—something that perhaps says I’m a mystery he’s eager to solve.

“Advice from Jen and Hal. That night in Vegas,” he says, and a small gasp escapes my lips. I wanted him to remember, and I’m glad he did.

“Good memory,” I murmur.

“I remember a lot of things. Seems like you do too. And I’m sensing a theme behind these mirrors.”

“What’s the theme?”

He taps the frame, giving it some thought. “Advice on the proper care and handling of an artist. That’s what this is, right?”

“Maybe it’s a roadmap to me, but I think the general lessons apply too. People keep wanting to give us tips, so I thought I’d put it down. ”

“Is this your way of telling me I should wear dragon underwear next time?” he teases.

I nibble on the corner of my lip, a little nervous. “Maybe it is. So, tell me—was this too presumptuous? The gift?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to hang it up tonight.”

That’s a relief, but still, I’m compelled to add, “You don’t have to. I’m not trying to, I don’t know, redecorate your home.”

His gaze is unflinching as he says, “You could though. If you wanted to.”

I furrow my brow. What do I make of that comment? But then it hits me, like a ten-pound bag of obvious. This is fake. Like I told my friends earlier. Just because I might feel some new emotions doesn’t change the score. And I shouldn’t try to read anything more into his comments. “Right. For the photo spread.” Of course that’ll help. If this place looks even more like I live here, it’ll be good for this marriage of convenience—for my work and for his charity rollout.

Briefly, frustration seems to flicker on his face.

“No. Just for you. You’re living here now. And you don’t have to go to the studio you rent to make your mirrors. You can do it in the guest room. You already have your easel and paints in there. Do you want to paint in there? Make your decorative art in there?”

It’s a generous offer, but the guest room is a guest room. “I think sometimes I just need a little distance from where I sleep to create.”

“I get that,” he says, though he sounds a little wistful. I think he wants me to like the guest room.

But also if I did that I’d be taking over, encroaching on all his space. “Thanks for the offer though. And the feedback on how I’m doing.”

“Anytime,” he says with a slow, teasing smile. “But I can give you feedback in other ways too.”

My pulse quickens. “Oh, you can?”

His gaze roams up and down my body, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Yeah. I’ll tell you exactly what I like. But first, I can’t get something out of my head.”

“What’s that?”

“What you promised me before I dropped you off at class. Because all I thought about while I was cooking dinner was what those pole moves might be.”

Funny, me too. “But we don’t have a pole,” I say playfully.

He points to the door. “I’ll get you one right now.”

Oh. I sit up straighter. He’s serious—he’d really install a pole for me. But that won’t be necessary. “The thing about pole dancing is…there are plenty of moves you can do on a chair.” His eyes glint with excitement, then darken when I say, “Or…on the floor.”

He hauls in a breath. “Good, then I’d like to see you get down on your hands and knees, wife.”

And just like that, dinner’s over, and it’s time for the show.