Page 48 of He Has Charm

Katy knows I’m a confirmed bachelor and she knows why, so she knows it’s nonnegotiable, but the idea kills her and she’s dead set on changing my mind. Whatever confusion I have about Harper, one thing I do know is that she isn’t my type of lady because she has serious marriage material written all over her in large, colorful, girly-swirly print.

I’m sure Katy can see the same thing. So I need to be on my best behavior to convince Katy that there is nothing between me and Harper.

The problem is I’m not sure I even know what my best behavior is supposed to be when it comes to Harper—except for the fact that I should most definitely refrain from calling her sugar buns in front of my sister. For Harper’s sake more than Katy’s.

Flirting is off the table, except Katy would expect me to flirt, wouldn’t she? That’s normal behavior for me even with professional associates. So if I don’t flirt Katy will think it’s because I think of Harper differently. She is different, not my usual type, a serious, kind, smart, and very marriageable lady, the kind a guy’d be proud to bring home to Mom. My mother would absolutely adore her, swoon with the idea of her balancing my mischief with her practicality, my casualness with her formality. Shit.

What the fuck am I thinking? Harper and I are supposed to be strictly business. No flirting even if it would be my normally expected behavior. Even if that very fact makes Katy suspicious. I’ll deal with it.

“I thought pasta and beef were off your diet?” I give my sister the finger and she laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mom.”

“I’m doing okay with my diet. Although I admit I’d like to do better at home. What I’d really love to do is learn to make some cool healthy gourmet dishes that stick to your ribs.”

His sister stage whispers, “He’s on a low-carb diet, kinda like Keto.”

“Or some healthier dishes like we get at the team meals,” I say.

“Where do you eat team meals?” Katy asks.

“With the Brawlers we eat at the dining hall in the practice facility. They have a chef who specializes in healthy, more vegetable-based meals. Not as good as Gordon Ramsay’s dishes, but not half bad.”

“If you’re always eating with the team, then why are you so hungry when you get home?” Harper asks. Katy scoffs. I raise my middle finger at my sister again, but I’m smiling.

“Like I said, they serve healthy food so it’s not enough to fill a guy up necessarily. I’m one of the bigger guys on the team, so I need to eat more anyway. Six thousand calories a day.”

Harper blows out a whistle only like an ex-hockey player can. I don’t tell her my goal is to keep my heart as healthy as possible. I’m certainly not going to tell her that one of the biggest reasons my dad’s heart condition led to a heart attack at so young an age was his diet. He had clogged arteries contributing to his enlarged heart valves.

“One of my dreams someday is take cooking lessons,” Harper says like it would be a Cinderella moment, “especially if Chef Ramsay was the teacher.” I dart a smirk at her and hold my tongue because even such an innocuous statement sparks irrational jealousy in my blood. I let it pass, but the reaction is unsettling.

“I’ve always wanted to take cooking lessons too,” I say, “but who has time?”

“You don’t need lessons to learn to cook,” Katy says. Harper’s eyes go wide and I laugh because I know exactly what she’s thinking. She doesn’t like to do things halfway.

“If you’re going to cook,” she says to Katy, “you need to do it right. Take it seriously.” I meet her eyes because I feel the exact same way and nod.

“Then it’s settled, Mad,” Katy says, using my childhood nickname. “Eating right is too important not to make time. You should hire a chef to come to the house and give you lessons. That way it would fit right into your schedule. And heaven knows you can afford it.”

I glance at Harper to see if she agrees, because I know she’d frown if she wasn’t cool with me paying. She nods.

“We do have the perfect kitchen for it here,” Harper says.

“You’re crazy,” I say. “And you too Katy kid, but I love you anyway.” They both stare at me and I don’t know what’s stopping me except maybe wistful memories of cooking with Dad and the fear of diluting them. Heaving a breath, I go for it. “If I take cooking lessons that means you and your bastard husband will have to come for dinner when I invite you and you’ll have to eat my food.”

“Anytime.”

“And you,” I say to Harper, “will have to take lessons with me. No arguing.” Because I can see the protest on her face. She pauses a beat then smiles.

“I’m not crazy. You won’t see me turning down cooking lessons. But I’ll split the cost with you.”

“No, you won’t. But let’s not argue about that now. It’ll ruin the sauce. Let’s break out the wine and celebrate our new hobby because you know it’ll keep me off the streets.” She laughs. The world tilts because that’s the only way to explain that off-kilter feeling I’m getting.

Katy speaks up, “Just don’t go all obsessive about learning to cook.” She turns to Harper. “Did he ever tell you about the time he learned to play pool after losing badly once?” She rolls her eyes. “He spent the entire summer between sophomore and junior year of college playing pool every single day after skating, read every book written about playing pool, and made a makeshift pool table for practice at home. Drove Mom crazy.”

“Paid off though. Now I’m pretty good. The pool table is the one thing I miss from my loft in NOLA.”

“Yeah, sorry we had to put that in storage,” Harper says. “But you can make sure you have enough space for a pool table when you look for a new place for when the season’s over.” The flash of regret in her eyes at the mention of the season ending does something to me, connects with the matching regret tightening my chest at the moment. Because when the season is over, Harper is going back to the Big Apple with her promotion and bigger and better deals.

The meal doesn’t turn out half bad and I spend more than half my time trying to make Harper laugh. It works more and more with each sip of wine she takes, but I don’t dare push her to have more than her one glass limit because I’m not that asshole.