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I park the car and get out, shivering a little. The sun is setting and the temperature this time of year drops pretty quickly. I’m wearing a sweater, but it’s thin—there was a fair amount of time spent trying to balance looking good without encouraging the chemistry that is obviously still between us. Sam must have seen me drive up because I don’t even have to knock. He opens the door as I walk up the steps, and predictably he takes my breath away. He’s dressed casually like me, in jeans and a henley that shows off the strength of his body. The way the sleeves show off his forearms has me thinking thoughts that I should not be thinking right now.
“Hi,” I say, and I hope I sound breezy enough. Even though it’s a little ridiculous to put so much meaning on one syllable.
“Hello.”
A second later Zeus is at the door, pushing past Sam and out to me. I lean down to pet him. “He seems better.”
“He is,” Sam agrees. “I’ve already started to change his diet. He seems to like it.”
“Good,” I say to Zeus. “A good boy deserves a good diet.”
Sam laughs softly. “Come on in.”
The inside of the house is nothing like his family’s mansion on the other side of town. That is glitzed out and over decorated and a pure statement of wealth. Sam’s house is just shy of minimalist. Dove gray walls and white trim and simple additions of color here and there make it look like it’s something out of a home magazine. “Your house is beautiful,” I say.
“Thank you.” He smiles knowingly. “Were you expecting it to look like my parents’ house?”
A blush creeps up my neck. “A little.”
“Not really my style,” he says.
“I can’t say I’m mad about that,” I say, following him deeper into the house. “So why am I really here?”
He turns, glancing over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“I—” I pause, realizing I need to choose my words carefully. “I just don’t understand the invitation.”
“I enjoy your company,” he says. “And we never got to finish our game of twenty questions.”
We walk into a kitchen that my father would lose his mind over, and it smells amazing. “You’re cooking?”
He laughs. “I wasn’t going to order take-out.”
I sit down at his bar, a little embarrassed that was my assumption. “I just can’t really imagine you cooking.”
“That’s cause you’re imagining me in high school trying to cook.”
“That’s true,” I laugh. “I think that you would have probably burned water.”
He stirs something on the stove, and peers into the oven. “I can’t say that I’m the best cook in the world, but once I moved in here I started to give it a try. I like it a lot, and when I do get it right or try something new it’s really satisfying.”
“What are we having?”
Sam opens the oven and pulls out a tray of bread. “Nothing fancy. Just some alfredo. And no, I didn’t bake the bread from scratch if that’s what you’re going to ask next.”
“I was. Does that count of one of my questions?”
He’s straining pasta out of the pot and disappears in a cloud of steam. “Nah, I’ll let it slide.”
“Okay,” I say. “What’s your absolute favorite thing to cook?”
“Chili,” he says, pouring the pasta back into the pot. “I like things that cook slowly. Things I can take my time with, and make sure they’re perfect.” He pulls the last pan off the stove and comes around the bar, wiping off his hands on a towel. “My turn.”
He turns my stool so he’s standing between my legs. Close. Way too close.
“If you had met me yesterday,” he says, “if I had come into the clinic and we had no history together, would you have gone out with me if I’d asked?”
“Yes.” God, on the one hand, I want that. I want our slate to be wiped clean and for us to have no memories and all discovery, nothing that would stand between us. But all those memories just make me want him more. And I’m not sure I’d want to trade that away, even if we’re stuck in a truce.
“Could—”
“Hey,” I cut him off. “It’s my turn to ask a question.”
It seems like for a second he’s going to protest, but he doesn’t. “Okay.”
“Did you know I worked in the clinic when you came in yesterday?” I’m trying to ignore how close he is to me, and how I could reach out and touch him, feel his body through that impossibly thin shirt. It’s not working.
Sam shakes his head. “I swear I didn’t. Someone had told me that the office was good a while back when I was thinking about doing some animal charity work. It popped into my head when I was worried about Zeus.” He takes a breath, and his face goes serious. I know this question is going to change the game somehow. “Do you think that we could pretend?”
