Only with You (16 page)

Her exclamation earned her what might have been a half smile. “I like to cook.”

“So do I, but I don’t have like five ovens,” she said, looking around in awe. The kitchen was a restaurant-sized industrial masterpiece. This was no standard-issue luxury kitchen. It was clearly custom-built for someone who knew their way around food.

“I’m a little embarrassed to have assumed the extent of your cooking skills was toast,” she said with chagrin. “Did I really force delivery pizza on you with the mistaken assumption that it was the best meal you’d have all week?”

“I didn’t mind,” Gray said, not unkindly.

Sophie snorted. “Says the man who has about a dozen French cookbooks whose names I can’t pronounce.”

She plucked one of the fancy cookbooks from the shelf and was surprised to see that it wasn’t just for show. It was splattered and creased and littered with his neat handwriting.

“What I’m making tonight is actually from that book,” he said, nodding toward the cookbook in her hand. “There’ll be more than enough food since I was assuming a party of four, but I think we can make a pretty good dent.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just imply your fake girlfriend was fat.”

He gave her a look. “You know you’re not fat, Sophie.”

She raised an eyebrow. He was flirting now? Nah. Then his gaze
finally
drifted down briefly to her chest.

Okay,
maybe
flirting.

Perhaps the bra and new sweater had been worth it after all. Brynn had been right. There were ways other than obvious cleavage to call attention to the girls.

Thinking about her sister made her feel guilty. Would Brynn mind that Sophie was cozying up to her ex-boyfriend in his home, about to eat a home-cooked French meal? Hell, had Brynn
been
here before? She hadn’t that night of the awkward double date, but she could have come over at some point after that.

The thought bothered Sophie more than it should, considering this wasn’t even a real date.

Gray snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Where’d you go?”

Pushing Brynn out of her mind, she settled onto one of his bar stools, taking another sip of wine. “Oh, I’m just wondering exactly how experimental you’re thinking of getting tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she felt unexpectedly tingly.

“
Food
, Gray, I was talking about food.”

The corner of his mouth hitched up in what she was beginning to realize was his version of a smile. “Ah. Well, in that case, let’s get you started on the first course before you do that hungry sulky thing.”

“Okay, you have to know that discussing a woman’s appetite and generally implying she’s a glutton isn’t exactly going to get you laid, right?”

“I thought we were just talking about food,” he said archly.

“We are,” she sputtered, blushing. “I just mean, you know…for future reference with other women. Real women.”

“Are you saying a part of you is fake?” he asked, his eyes dropping again to her chest. She was appalled to find her nipples tightening. Luckily he couldn’t notice through the eight layers of push-up padding. God bless Victoria and her secret.

“Wow, accused of selling sex
and
of being plastic by the same man. How is it that we haven’t killed each other yet?”

He gave her a real smile this time, and she warmed a little at this slightly more friendly Gray.

“Would you like to help cook?” he asked.

“Not really, I’d much rather watch the master and drink all of your delicious wine.”

He nodded and pulled a tray of grilled asparagus out of the fridge. “Don’t touch that yet,” he snapped as she reached out to grab one. “I’m not done.”

She watched, fascinated as he proceeded to poach a couple of eggs and add them to the platter. Strips of salty prosciutto were added to the sides of the plate, and he finished the whole thing off with a drizzle of some fancy-looking olive oil and balsamic vinegar and croutons.

By the time he took a seat at the bar next to her, her mouth was watering.

“First course is served,” he said, handing her a fork. She was just about to spear a perfectly grilled vegetable when he grabbed her hand.

Startled by the contact, her eyes met his, and her mouth went from watering to dry. The man was more adept at seduction than she’d given him credit for. With nothing but a sultry look and the touch of a hand, she was practically panting.

“Don’t tell me I don’t get to eat this,” she joked, trying to break the unexpected tension.

Gray picked up his wineglass. “I’m a big fan of celebrating the food I cook before eating it.”

She blinked in confusion. “You want to pray?” Not that there was anything wrong it, but she hadn’t pegged him for the type.

“No, I just meant that I thought we should do a toast,” he said quietly.

And then she melted just a little more, because his expression had gone from looking seductive to slightly embarrassed. Feeling a rush of warmth for this complex, emotionally challenged man, she set down her fork, and dramatically cleared her throat as she picked up her wineglass.

“Ahem. I’d like to toast my dreamboat of a fake almost-boyfriend, who is, in addition to being a cuddly laugh-a-minute hottie, also a damned good chef. Not that I’d know because he won’t let me actually
eat
the food, probably because he thinks I’m annoying, gluttonous, and slutty, but—”

Gray clinked his glass to hers and let out a half laugh. She couldn’t help smiling back. She felt oddly proud of coaxing humor from someone who so seldom smiled. As she dug into the decadent dish, her sister crept back into her mind. Was Sophie sitting in the same spot Brynn had sat in when they were dating?

Was Sophie once again merely playing a part, whereas Brynn had been the real deal?

They ate in companionable silence, and common sense told her to keep quiet, but the wine flowing through her system had other ideas.

“What does Brynn think of your cooking?” she blurted out.

“We never quite made it to that stage.” He pushed a crouton around on his plate. “I don’t think I’d know what to talk about.”

“You seem to be doing fine with me,” she said, trying to keep the gloat out of her voice.

“Only because you forced your way into my life like a battering ram. My options are to talk to you or go deaf from your incessant chatter.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“How hungry are you? I was thinking I could put together a quick salad.”

“I doubt anything you cook from that book is quick, but sure. A salad sounds great. Where’d you learn to cook like this, anyway? Mom? Grandma?”

Gray stood and pulled greens from the refrigerator. “No, my mom died when I was a kid, and the only grandmother in the picture was my father’s mom. Not exactly the warm, fuzzy, culinary type.”

The fact that Gray had grown up without any maternal influence didn’t surprise Sophie in the least, but it made her sad all the same. It also explained quite a bit about Jenna’s rough edges and Jack’s excess of superficial charm.

She’d also learned from Jenna that their father hadn’t exactly been the warm type either. Lack of a softer influence had resulted in one very jaded big brother. Over martinis, Jenna had let it slip that Gray had absorbed the majority of their father’s attention, but not in the way a son would hope for. The senior Grayson Wyatt had continually berated his eldest son for being quiet and wimpy. Gray had been sent away to boarding school with instructions to become more
likable
.

Sophie winced as she realized that her own comments about making him more approachable might add to open wounds. How must it feel to always be told that you’re not appealing enough? To be shy, but told that in order for someone to like you, you had to be more talkative?

Had anyone ever told Gray that he was sufficient just as he was? That he was successful and kind, even if he had no idea how to show it?

She doubted it.

Not that he was faultless, of course. That chronic scowl had to go, she didn’t care how introverted he was. But at the same time, she no longer was sure she wanted him to smile just because it was
expected
. Sophie was beginning to like the fact that Gray’s smiles had to be earned. They felt more like a reward worth reaching for instead of a superficial grin freely given.

Perhaps most startling of all was the fact that the two of them weren’t quite as different as she’d assumed. They were both struggling to reconcile being true to themselves while managing the expectations of others. He with being more approachable, and she with being more conventional. On the one hand, they wanted to be open to self-improvement. On the other, they didn’t want to compromise their own values.

“Please tell me you’re not having some sort of melodramatic womanly moment over there,” Gray said as he drizzled some oil over a bunch of exotic-looking greens.

“I totally was. You want to hear about it?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.”

She told him anyway. “I was just thinking how we have more in common that I would have guessed.”

He sighed and put a salad in front of her. “Is listening to this optional?”

“Quit being so emotionally closed-off,” she said without heat.

“And this is why I don’t read
Cosmo
.”

Sophie dug into her salad, pleasantly surprised that something so simple could taste gourmet. “Hey, this is really good. You should open a restaurant. And you still haven’t told me how you learned to cook like this.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “I kind of stumbled into it, really. At some point after college I realized that I wanted to be able to make something other than grilled cheese. So I went to cooking school. Le Cordon Bleu, actually.”

“Isn’t that where professional chefs go?”

“They take anyone with enough money.”

“Ah, so you bribed them. Fair enough. You pay for cooking school, you pay for sex. It all makes sense.”

He let out a low growl. “When do we get to drop the prostitute thing? I’m making dinner for you, and I think in return you should quit making cracks about that night.”

She bit into a perfectly crisp green bean and considered. “I will under one condition.”

He muttered a string of obscenities which she pretended not to hear.

“I promise never to bring it up again if you tell me what
exactly
about me made you think I was a hooker. I mean, I know I wasn’t exactly classy, but it was
Vegas
. I was hardly the only one in skimpy attire.”

He looked almost hopeful. “If I address the elevator incident, we can move on?”

“Promise. I will never ever imply that you once wanted to pay me for sex.”

“I never wanted—” He broke off, realizing that she was baiting him.

He was really getting better at this whole reading-of-the-people routine. She felt so proud.

Gray’s jaw tightened, and his voice sounded gruff. “It was just those damn boots. They were awful. I figured no self-respecting woman would wear them.”

Sophie let out a half laugh. “You made a snap judgment based on my shoe choice?”

He lifted a shoulder and continued eating his salad.

She shook her head. “Talk about judgmental crap.”

“Talk about slutty shoes.”

That made her smile ruefully. “And to think I spent a good hour getting ready that night. All my hard work defeated by the wrong shoe selection. I was
this
close to picking a very respectable sandal.”

“Now can I ask
you
something?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very good, Gray. Showing interest in your date is progress.”

He ignored her attempt at evasion. “Two questions, actually. First, why did you quit law school?”

Sophie blinked at the unexpected change in topic. She thought carefully about how to respond. Did she even know anymore? Her twenty-three-year-old self seemed like a distant stranger. “I don’t really know,” she said slowly. “It’s like one day I was contentedly going through the motions of the path I’d always been on, and the next day…everything just felt wrong.”

“So…you wanted to go into the restaurant business?”

Sophie laughed softly. “Very delicately put. And no, not really. I suppose you could say it was a very delayed form of rebellion. I’d done everything I was supposed to up until that point. Good grades, the “right” extracurricular, the right school, wholesome boyfriend…When I fell off that path, my parents flipped. There was a whole lot of talk about being respectable, and not a whole lot of dialogue about happiness. I guess in turn I tried to get as far away from their path as possible.”

“By becoming a cocktail waitress,” he finished for her.

“Well…it was that or a hooker,” she said with a sly smile.

He took a sip of wine. “Which leads me to my next question…Why are you still so preoccupied with what happened that night? It was a simple mistake, and we’ve already established that neither of us was at our best. Add to that a freak elevator malfunction. But you can’t let it go. Why is that?”

She let out a long breath and pushed her salad aside. “I’m going to need more wine for this discussion.”

He complied, refilling both their glasses without comment. Then he turned and studied her, his dark eyes latching on to hers with uncomfortable intensity.

She looked away and idly ran her finger along the stem of her crystal glass before speaking.

“So, the thing is,” she began slowly, “my career path hasn’t been exactly typical for a Stanford graduate. The alumni house is hardly pounding on my door begging for interviews.”

She took a swallow of wine, feeling his intent gaze still fixed on her profile.

“And I guess I’ve always known that I’m better at being
liked
than being admired,” she continued. “And I’m okay with that. Mostly. But being mistaken for a prostitute somehow felt like rock bottom, you know? Like I’d been able to handle the
You can do better
pep talks up to a point, but…”

She broke off, not knowing how to explain herself and worried she’d revealed too much.

He didn’t let her off the hook. “But when I thought you were at the bottom of the employment food chain, you doubted yourself and began to wonder if your family was right about you?” he guessed.