Breakfast in Bed

chapter 7


RICH LOOKED AT THE LIST IN FRONT OF HIM AND CRINGED. What the hell was it with Becca and lists? Tuesdays were his early days, so he came home instead of playing basketball with the guys in order to do his domestic duties. It had been a week and a half since he and Becca started living together in a depressingly platonic way, and every day she'd leave him a list of things to do with detailed instructions on how to go about doing them. He hated that about her. He didn't know why she didn't just show him how to do it. It was way more fun watching Becca do just about anything than reading her lists and instructions, and Lord knew, the instructions weren't helping to make him into a Domestic God.
Today Rich had to clean the bathroom and do his laundry. He and Tripod seemed to have come to a truce of sorts once Rich discovered Tripod's love for potato chips, popcorn, ice cream, and coffee. The little bugger scarfed all the junk food he could fit in his little body, and then he'd fall asleep on the couch all curled up with his paw over his eyes and snore. Rich never knew cats snored; unfortunately, he also learned cats fart. Tripod nearly gassed him out during a movie marathon while in his ice cream coma. No more spumoni for him.
Rich looked at Tripod, who sat beside him on the couch drinking the last of Rich's coffee out of his and Tripod's favorite mug, the one big enough for his head. Tripod loved coffee almost as much as ice cream, and Rich loved how much fun Tripod became with a little caffeine, as if he wasn't already the coolest cat on the planet. Tri was Rich's shadow, hell, the little guy even slept with him most of the time. Rich didn't mind as long as Tripod followed the rules and slept on his own side of the bed. "Are you finished with your coffee, big guy?"
Tripod flicked his tail and belted out a short rrup, which meant "yup" in cat-speak. Rich picked up their cup and brought it to the kitchen. Instead of just throwing it in sink, he actually put it in the dishwasher because Becca was on him to clean up after himself. Obviously, he was avoiding the next thing on his list. The laundry—okay, so he'd been avoiding it all. He considered himself lucky that Becca let him take his suits and shirts to the cleaners. Sometimes he wondered if she was having a little too much fun ordering him around. Rich really missed his old cleaning lady; she used to do all this stuff for him.
Laundry first. He went into his room and Tripod jumped into the middle of things while Rich stripped the sheets, burying the cat in bedding. When he picked up the spare pillow to pull off the case, he smelled Becca. "I swear she's everywhere."
Tripod murmured from somewhere beneath the pile of sheets.
Rich tossed it all into a laundry basket and carried the pile to the utility closet, feeling the solid weight of Tripod in the basket along with sheets, towels, and whichever piece of clothing happened to be on the floor under the pile. He set it down. "Come on, Tripod, time to get out of there unless you're into taking a ride through the wash. Seeing how much you enjoyed the shower, I'm thinking that's a no."
Rich picked up each piece of bedding and stuffed it in the front-load washer while Tripod flipped out and did some cool break dancing moves before he started pouncing on an imaginary adversary.
Becca's directions said not to overfill the machine, though she never told him how much to fill it. When it was full, but not packed, he closed the glass door, pulled the detergent drawer open, and checked Becca's directions for the amount to use. The last thing he wanted was to have to shovel bubbles again, although from the look of the black and white tile floor, it could use a wash.
Rich started the machine and waited to make sure the thing actually worked. So did Tripod. Both of them stared at the glass window, and when the laundry started circling Tripod tried to catch the black sock that had somehow managed to find its way into the washer. "That should keep you busy." He left Tripod to it and went to tackle the bathroom.
Cleaning the bathroom wasn't so bad, well, after he learned the very important lesson that if you mix cleaners, you create toxic gas. After he'd washed his timesaving concoction down the drain, spent ten minutes with the window open and the fan on, he started all over again. This time he followed Becca's directions on which cleaner to use and where to use it. On the plus side, Rich was sure he had the cleanest drains east of the Hudson and that his nose hair would grow back eventually. He hoped.
While Rich cleaned the bathroom, he noticed the metal hamper built into the wall. When he opened it just to see how it worked, all of Becca's clothes fell out. Since his to-do list was all but finished, he thought he'd do a good deed and stuff Becca's clothes in the wash for her. He tossed the load into a basket and went to put his wash in the dryer and Becca's clothes in the washer. After that, he thought he and Tripod deserved some DVR time.
After eating a few sandwiches and watching last week's episode of Top Gear, Rich removed his sheets from the dryer and tossed all of Becca's clothes in. He turned on Animal Planet for Tripod, while he separated stray clothing from sheets and went to put his bed back together, missing the fact he could no longer roll over and get a nose full of Becca on his spare pillow, or Becca's pillow, as he'd begun to think of it.
Rich wished he had paid attention when they taught him how to make a bed in military school. But since military school had been the last place in the world he wanted to be besides jail, and he'd been scared spit-less, he acted tough and dumb. Since Becca moved in, he'd been spending so much time tossing and turning in the middle of the night thinking about her sleeping in the next room, he awoke to find his bed looked as if something had detonated in it. Every morning he'd put his bed back together the same way, and it hadn't held up yet. Well, except that first night. The bed was well intact when he'd woken up naked on top of an equally naked Becca.
Tripod's yowl pulled him from his rather explicit daydream so Rich went out to see what Tripod was so excited about. He wasn't in front of the television watching the monkeys swing around the screen, which is where Rich had left him. Rich put his hands on his hips and waited for the next blast. Sure enough, not a second later, Tripod all but screamed. Rich ran after the sound, and when he turned the corner behind the kitchen into the sunroom/mud room, smoke poured out of the utility closet. F*ck.
Rich ran in, grabbed Tripod, and hightailed it back to the kitchen to get the fire extinguisher from under the sink. Tripod bounced beside him as he ran back to the utility room, opened the door to the dryer, and filled it with extinguisher foam. Becca was going to kill him. At least he'd get out of laundry duty. Rich figured if he burned her clothes once, he'd never be allowed to touch a dryer again.
Gathering Tripod up in a towel, Rich went to answer the door. Wayne and Henry had been banging but busted through after using their own key. "We saw the smoke pouring out of your apartment and called 911."
The fire truck pulled up a minute later, and the firefighters had Wayne , Henry, Rich, and Tripod wait outside until they made sure there was no further danger and gave them permission to return to the premises.
To Rich, the wait seemed like an eternity. It was ten minutes to anyone not holding a three-legged cat wrapped in a towel who knew how to make good use out of his claws. When the all-clear was sounded, Rich walked through the doors, Tripod still thankfully contained in a towel, and sat on the couch. His eyes stung from either the smoke or his little chemistry experiment in the bathroom—possibly both. His arms stung from Tripod's attempts to rip him to shreds, and his ego stung from yet another failure. Of all the billions of people who did laundry, why did he have to be the one to incinerate the contents of the dryer? Especially since that dryer contained what Rich figured was most of the lingerie owned by his roommate—the same roommate who had been known to come after him with a baseball bat.
Becca ran screaming into the apartment and threw herself in his arms. Tripod yowled, but she didn't seem to notice. She was too busy running her hands all over Rich.
"Oh God, are you okay?"
Rich put Tripod in a football hold so he could calm Becca down.
"He's fine."
"Who?"
"Tripod. It really looks worse than it is."
"What does? You're covered with soot. You smell like smoke and chemicals. You're scorched."
"We're fine. I just have Tripod wrapped up until the firefighters let me close the doors. He's already spent time outside, and I think he's more interested in freedom than in coffee and Animal Planet."
"What?"
"Never mind. Look, Becca. There's something I have to tell you."
"You mean there's more?"
"It's about the fire."
"Don't worry about that. The important thing is that you're safe. The damage is minor, or at least that's what the firefighter on the stoop said."
"Yeah, well. I guess so, but still, you might want to sit down."
Becca turned as white as his sheets were before he'd washed them with his socks. Unfortunately, the socks were black and red. Now his sheets were a kind of grayish pink—not that he really cared. He called that a success in light of the way his second try turned out, and if bad luck continued to plague him, no one would ever see the color of his sheets again. As upsetting as that thought was, it was nowhere near as awful as the prospect of telling Becca the news.
Becca sank down into the couch, which seemed to engulf her. She looked almost fragile, and Rich wanted to kick his own ass.
Becca wrapped her arms around herself. "Just spit it out, Rich. You're scaring me."
"The fire was in the dryer."
"You burnt your clothes?"
"Not exactly."
"Okay, what did you burn?"
Rich resisted the urge to cross himself.
"Excuse me?" A male voice interrupted. Rich and Becca looked up to see a firefighter had walked in. "This looks like the culprit." He held up a wire. "It went through one of the holes in the dryer and apparently hit the heating element and threw enough sparks to ignite the contents."
Becca turned to Rich. "Why would you wash a wire?"
The firefighter chuckled. "It's an underwire, ma'am. You really should use a lingerie bag if you're going to machine wash and dry your unmentionables.
Becca's eyes widened. "My unmentionables?"
Rich cringed and nodded. "Yeah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I was trying to do you a favor."
"A favor?"
"I was cleaning the bathroom like you told me to, and I found your laundry in the hamper.
"So you had the urge to wash my clothes?"
"I was trying to do something nice for you, and well, the first load of laundry I washed didn't turn out so bad."
"Dude." The firefighter interrupted. "You torched the lady's underwear?"
Rich nodded.
"You need to replace the dryer. That one's toast."
Rich stood and shook the man's hand. "Thanks, I appreciate the help." Rich couldn't miss the pitying look the guy gave him.
"Good luck, man. We're out of here."
Becca didn't say anything as the firefighter left the apartment. Rich watched her carefully, not sure how she'd retaliate. Whatever he expected, it was not for her to walk into her room and quietly close the door.
Rich didn't see her until the next morning when he was getting ready for work. He'd spent the rest of the evening feeling like crap about the fire and was waiting for Becca to come out and ream him. He'd pay to replace the dryer and all the clothes he'd ruined. He didn't care about that. What bothered him was the look on Becca's face when she'd walked away from him the night before.
He cursed under his breath and grabbed his briefcase, ready to leave for work. He looked over his shoulder and saw Becca shuffling out of her bedroom all warm, sleepy, and sexy even though she wore hundred-year-old ratty sweats. Unfortunately for him, he knew what was under them. "Oh good, you're up."
Becca didn't say anything; she just stared at him.
"I didn't want to wake you before I left, but I wanted to tell you that I'm going to see Gina tonight, so if all goes well, I probably won't be home to cook dinner."
Becca smiled, the look of relief clear on her face. "Good luck with that. Do you want me to write a note expounding your Domestic God virtues?"
"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think it'll be necessary." And truth be told, there wasn't much to expound upon. Shit, if this didn't work he wasn't sure what he would do. The dinner with his dean was in two days. If Gina didn't give him another shot … no, he wasn't going there.
He slid into his jacket, turned, and caught Becca watching him with a strange look on her face. "What is it?" He checked his fly, yup, it was zipped, and his tie was straight.
"Nothing, you look fine. I was just, you know, woolgathering."
"Okay, well, have a good one."
She stuffed her hands into the pocket of her sweat shirt. "You too."

Wednesday evening Rich sat at the bar of his and Gina's favorite rendezvous—a quiet little place halfway between his office and hers, waiting for her. He'd practiced his speech most of the day, lucky for him it was an exam day, but from the look on his students' faces as they left, he was one of the few feeling lucky. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember what he'd planned to say. A lot of good all the practicing did him. He would have been better off grading papers. With spending every spare moment cooking and cleaning with Becca, he was way behind on his paperwork. Who knew housework was so time-consuming? Of course, if he weren't such a complete screwup he wouldn't have to do most everything over again after cleaning up whatever it was he destroyed.
The minute Gina walked in, Rich knew he was fighting an uphill battle. She didn't look at all happy to see him. Damn. He stood to pull out a stool for her, and when he bent to kiss her, she turned her head so he barely hit her cheek. She wore a body-skimming, long-sleeved red sweater dress that, even with her coat on, stopped all traffic and most of the conversation in the bar.
"You look great. Thanks for meeting me."
"Thanks." She smiled at him and allowed him to help her off with her coat—the coat he almost dropped when he saw her dress. It was a lipstick red with a very deep V-neck that showed off her rather amazing breasts that he knew for a fact were real. The soft material, what there was of it, clung to her like a second skin. He wondered if she wore a bra because he saw no signs of one. Lord knew she wasn't wearing panties. He took her arm and helped her up on the barstool. He always thought she was tiny, but most women were compared to him. But damn she was short. He never really noticed before, but after spending two weeks with Becca, who was anything but, Gina's shortness was glaring. Even with heels, she stood at least a foot shorter than he.
Gina swiveled the stool to face the bartender and graced him with a genuine smile, much more genuine than the one she'd given Rich. Christ, this did not bode well for his plan. She confirmed his thought when she turned to him after she ordered her drink. "What do you want, Richie?"
Okay, so she wasn't in the mood for small talk. "I've missed you."
She laughed. "Come on, you expect me to believe that? I know you, remember?"
So she was right, he really hadn't missed her. Of course he'd been so busy trying to do everything possible to become a damn Domestic God he hadn't realized it, not that he'd admit it to her. He took a swig of his beer. "If I didn't miss you why would I have gone through all the trouble to learn how to cook and clean?"
Gina had taken a sip of her martini and choked when she heard that. After she stopped coughing, she wiped the mascara from under her eyes and held up her finger to stop him from saying whatever it was he was about to say so she could get her hysterical laughter under control. After taking a few calming breaths, she looked him in the eye. "So, you're learning to cook and clean. Hmm. I can't imagine why unless maybe you suddenly got the hots for Martha Stewart?"
"No."
She patted his chest. "Honey, I'm happy for you. I'm sure your next girlfriend will appreciate it. But I told you before—you shouldn't have bothered for my sake. I'm not interested."
"Hold on, when you broke up with me you said it was because I wasn't relationship material."
"You're not. Well not for me. You're cute and sweet, kinda like Tom Hanks in that old movie Big."
"He played a child in a grown man's body."
"Exactly." She looked at her watch and downed the rest of her martini. "I've got to run, but thanks for the drink. It was nice seeing you again."
"That's it?"
"What did you expect, Rich?"
"I thought you'd give me another shot at least. Come on, Gina. I have this dinner thing Friday night. Come with me. It'll be fun."
"A dinner thing?"
"Yeah, it's a charity dinner with my dean and his wife. You know. Dinner, dancing. It'll be a good time."
"So that's what this is all about."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You don't want me. You just want a date." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I really wish I could help you out, but I'm kind of seeing someone."
"You are?"
"Annabelle introduced me to him actually."
"Annabelle?"
"Yeah, I gotta run. I'm late as it is. Good luck with your dinner. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone else to go with you."
Rich stood and helped her with her coat. He just nodded, and she reached for him and gave him a hug. "Bye, Gina."
He sat back down and watched her leave—along with every other guy at the bar. Rich wondered if she'd always dressed like that—loud enough to cause an accident. It had been two weeks since he'd seen her, and he'd spent just about every free minute with Becca who couldn't be more different. When Becca wasn't wearing those God-awful ratty clothes, she dressed with a quiet, sophisticated sexiness that if put up against Gina would make Gina look almost garish. Now that he thought about it, Gina probably wasn't the right girl to take to the benefit dinner. The right girl was right under his nose the whole time. Becca. Now if only he could figure out how to talk her into going with him.
Rich just needed a plan. He'd make dinner to thank Becca for all her help, and after a bottle of wine or two, when she was all happy and relaxed, he'd ask her if she would do him a favor. After all, it was only one dinner. Dean Stewart would like Becca. The only glitch that Rich could see was that Becca really didn't like him. Although after she got over his burning up all her lingerie, she seemed to dislike him less. Either that or she just got tired of talking about it. With any luck and—knowing Becca—a lot of begging, she'd go to the dinner with him.
Rich remembered Becca said she liked salmon so he stopped by the fish market on the way home. He wasn't sure how much to buy, but after getting advice from the guy behind the counter, he had enough for dinner for two along with a foolproof recipe written on a piece of butcher paper.
Thankfully, the cashier had overheard his conversation with the fish man and took pity on Rich reminding him to purchase a few lemons. She even suggested making a side dish, which would never have occurred to him. She took him by the arm down one of the grocery aisles and pointed out a bag of yellow-colored rice that she said was easily prepared in the microwave. Rich could definitely handle a microwave. He thanked her while she rang up his sale and asked her if she had any other advice. She suggested that he stop at the vegetable stand next door and buy the ingredients for a salad, maybe some fresh broccoli, too, which she told him could also be cooked in the microwave. The woman was a Godsend, and if she wasn't old enough to be his grandmother, he would have asked her out to the damn dinner.
Rich juggled the packages and unlocked the door to the apartment. Tripod was waiting for him like he did every night. Tripod jumped off the couch and meowed as he hopped beside Rich to the kitchen. He shook his head. The cat sounded like he was carrying on a conversation and doing all the talking.
Tripod had an entire vocabulary of distinctly different yowls and meows. Short, clipped ones that Rich swore sounded like they had a question mark behind them, snarky, more guttural yowls to show displeasure, and he'd even heard a snort or two, as if the cat were laughing at him—not that he hadn't given him plenty to laugh at.
If Becca went to the dinner with Rich, he could let it slip that they were living together, which wasn't even a lie. There was no need to tell his dean it was only a temporary arrangement. That would prove that he'd settled down. After all, he'd never lived with a woman before. Heck, he'd never even come close. With most of his relationships, he tried to keep women out of his apartment. Not only because he'd have to have his cleaning lady over before his date, which wasn't worth the hassle or expense since he could just go over to his date's place, but because it made things much easier after the relationship ended.
He still had nightmares about the one time he'd made the mistake of giving his key to a woman. A few weeks after they'd stopped seeing each other, Rich had come home to find her waiting naked in his bed. A difficult thing to explain to the almost naked woman he'd been working hard to get into said bed. Actually, since woman number one had fallen asleep waiting for him, Rich technically succeeded in having two women in his bed at one time—every guy's fantasy. Unfortunately, his fantasy quickly proved to be a nightmare.
The memory sent a chill up his spine as he removed the rubber band from the bouquet of flowers he'd bought. He stuffed the stems in a vase he found above the refrigerator, pulled the hose from the sink, and squirted some water into it. The flowers didn't look too good. He probably should have bought one of the arrangements already in a vase. They sure looked better than his, but he had his arms full of packages and wasn't sure he'd make it home without dropping something.
He took out the directions the fish man had given him. It said to use a Pyrex pan. What the hell was a Pyrex pan?
He grabbed his phone. It was good to have a chef on speed dial. "Vin, it's Rich. Man, you gotta help me out."
"What happened? You burn down the apartment again?"
Rich put the wine in the refrigerator to chill and got himself a beer. He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder while he popped the top off the beer. "Shit, does everyone know about the fire?" He held the phone, tipped the beer up to his lips, and took a swig. Thankfully, he'd finished swallowing before Vinny stopped laughing.
"Of course. What are you, nuts? Remember that wedding reception in the church basement? The maid of honor's dress caught on fire when they served flaming cherries jubilee, and the band started playin' the "William Tell Overture" while she ran around screaming like a banshee?"
"Yeah."
"Yours ain't as good, but it's close. Especially when I tell them that all your girlfriend's bras and undies were in the drier."
"Becca's not my girlfriend."
"Sure, that's why you were washing her lingerie. What man washes a woman's panties if he ain't getting into them?"
"Becca was just teaching me how to do laundry, Vin."
He snorted. "God, that makes the story even better."
"Anything I can do to help."
"So, if the place ain't on fire, what the hell are you callin' me for? I gotta get ready for the dinner rush."
"I need to know what the f*ck a Pyrex pan is."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm making dinner for Becca, and it said to cook the fish in a Pyrex pan."
"You know what a lasagna pan looks like? It's thirteen by nine, usually clear glass, but I got one from Corning that has pretty blue flowers—"
"Stop, for Christ's sake. I know what a lasagna pan is." He had one on the counter he was supposed to give back to Aunt Rose.
"What kind of fish you makin'?"
"Salmon. The fish man told me a foolproof recipe. He said any idiot could make it."
"Yeah? What is it?"
"You just stick the fish skin side down in a greased pan. What kind of grease am I supposed to use?"
"You got that cooking spray?"
"How the f*ck do I know?"
"Well, look in the cabinet next to the stove. If it ain't there, try lookin' over the stove."
"Is it yellow with a red top?"
"Bingo. Just spray it on, don't forget the sides."
"Gotcha."
"Then what?"
"He said to slather the top of the fish with mayonnaise like frosting a cake. I'm supposed to make sure I cover all of the fish showing and then sprinkle the top with onion powder, garlic powder, parsley, and dill. Then just bake it at 375 degrees for 15 minutes. He said it'll get so you can flake it with a fork."
"That ain't Italian."
"No, but it's easy. And with any luck, it'll be edible. Right now that's the best I can hope for."
"Why don't you just bring her here? Mona's been dying to get another look at her."
"Vin, I'm trying to impress her."
"You sayin' my cookin' ain't impressive?"
"No, I'm sayin' I'm trying to impress her with mine."
Vinny let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, well, good luck with that. You got anything else you wanna ask before I get back to work?"
"No, not that I can think of."
"See, I told you you should'a come to work for me when you were a kid. If you had, you'd know how to cook good Italian food like me. But no, instead you went and stole a car."
"You're right. I should have gone to work for you."
"Okay, if you get into trouble, just call. I can send Sonny over with some salmon all cooked, maybe you can like, you know, pretend you made it or somethin'."
"Vin, she's not dumb."
"Right, well, call me if you need help."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
"No problem. What else do I gotta do? It ain't like I got a restaurant to run or anything."
Rich laughed and disconnected the call.

Becca stood in the trendy West Side gallery and watched the woman who worked there examine her business card as if she were checking a fake ID. The snob factor of the gallery was evident by the accent, dress, and degree of angle on the woman's surgically photo-shopped nose. After hitting three West Side galleries on her list, Becca suddenly realized that styles of facial features like the little pert ski-jump nose and the pouty lips were becoming an honest-to-God trend. What would Victoria Hyde-Taylor do if the fat-lipped look ever went out? Do cosmetic surgeons do lipectomies?
Becca kept the smile on her face as she handed Victoria the last of her application CDs in the hand-decorated case she'd created last night. The cases were pieces of modern art. "On here I've included my art exhibition application form, résumé, jpegs of my work, PDFs of several articles, and brochures from past shows."
"I see." Victoria looked down her short ski-jump nose at the CD case.
"What is your typical response time?"
Victoria shrugged her shoulders. "You'll hear from us if we're interested."
Becca was tempted to take back that CD case; it was beautiful and would probably end up along with her CD in the circular file as soon as the door closed behind her. "Well, thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you. Have a nice day." Becca didn't wait for Victoria 's response before leaving. She stopped at the Starbucks on the corner and drowned her sorrows in a Venti Caramel Macchiato on her way home. She needed to change out of her trendy artist clothes into her construction worker outfit and get over to the brownstone.
Between her gallery visits and dealing with the constant problems at the brownstone, Becca was in a shitty mood. It didn't help that Rich told her he had a date with Gina. At least the construction guys were f*cking up royally so she had someone to take her bad mood out on. Worse than that, Annabelle seemed to know that Rich had a date with Gina too, and got a real kick out of mentioning it to Becca repeatedly. It was all she could do not to spit, but she wasn't about to let Annabelle know that Richie was growing on her.
She was woman enough to admit, if only to herself, that she didn't hate him anymore. Maybe she'd go as far as to say she liked him. He was a nice guy, and he was cute, especially when he got embarrassed every time he messed up. And what woman wouldn't like a guy whose first thought in a fire was to find and save her cat? Heck, she'd even admit that she turned to mush when she saw him sitting there holding on to her snarling cat and looking so ashamed and embarrassed. She had to pretend to be mad at Rich just so he could save face. Men had such fragile egos. If she told him not to feel bad, it would have driven him nuts.
When she turned the corner and saw the fire engine, she had kind of freaked out. The knowledge that Rich was almost definitely in the apartment turned her blood to ice. Visions of Rich burnt or overcome with smoke filled her head as tears filled her eyes. She'd been in full panic mode when the firefighter stopped her while she was sprinting into the brownstone and assured her no one was hurt. She'd heard what the firefighter said, and she still had to practically sit on Rich to assure herself he was still alive and well.
So, even though it was no surprise to her that he was growing on her, she was still floored by the lightning bolt of sheer jealousy that shot through her when he oh-so-casually said he was going out with Gina. She told herself that it was human nature to feel a little jealous. After all, she and Rich had spent every night together cooking, cleaning, laughing at his foibles, and watching TV. They'd become friends kind of. Now he was off drooling over Gina who hadn't so much as called him in the last two weeks. Becca stopped herself. She didn't know that for a fact, but she was pretty sure Rich would have told her if Gina had called. If not, Annabelle certainly would have.
Annabelle sure had a great time rubbing Becca's nose in the fact that Richie had a date, and Becca hadn't had one in two years. Like she needed reminding.
Maybe she should think about getting another cat. One who'd be more cuddly than Tripod. That shouldn't be so hard to find. Hell, probably most of the big cats would fit that description. She figured she'd turn into one of those eccentric old women like Leona Helmsley who would leave money in her will to her nieces and nephews as long as they took care of her cats. Even one of the construction workers referred to Becca as the Queen of Mean today. Maybe she was channeling old Leona.
Becca grumbled as she unlocked the door because she dropped the DVDs she picked up to watch tonight. She kicked the door open, tossed her purse on the table, and bent to collect the movies when she realized she wasn't alone. Someone was in the kitchen, and she knew it couldn't be Rich since whatever was cooking smelled really good. Maybe his mother or Aunt Rose had the key and wanted to surprise him? Or, oh God, what if Gina was cooking?
Becca didn't remember him saying she should make herself scarce, but then she was half asleep, and she had a hard time hearing what he said with the blood rushing though her ears after he dropped the G-bomb. She grabbed her purse and was halfway out the door when Tripod screamed at her.
"Shhh…"
Rich came out of the kitchen looking like something right off the pages of her Porn for Women Calendar. She just wished it was the XXX one she had stashed where no one could find it.
"You're home."
All he was missing was the "honey." She was speechless. He didn't look upset. He looked happy to see her. What the hell was going on?
"I called Annabelle to see what time you left. I made dinner and didn't want the fish to overcook." He looked at his watch. "It'll be done in about ten minutes if you want to change. You look like you had a hard day." He took her messenger bag off her shoulder. "Can I get you a glass of wine?"
"What?"
Rich tugged her jacket off, and she was too stunned to stop him. "If you hurry up, you can get a nice hot shower. You have sawdust all over you." He gave her a shove toward the bathroom.
Becca saw the dining room table had been set. There were even flowers. Ugly flowers, but flowers all the same. "Look, Rich. I can see you have plans, and I don't want to intrude. I can just go back to Annabelle's and hang there." She craned her neck to see if Gina was anywhere near; she wasn't in the kitchen. Oh, God, maybe she was already in the bedroom.
"Becca, I cooked dinner for you. I'm making salmon, your favorite. I think it's going to be good. Come on, you could at least try it."
"What? I thought you had a date with Gina."
"Well, yeah. Afterward I stopped at the store to pick up something for dinner. Now hurry up and get into the shower, I don't want you to get sawdust all over the food and then complain about my cooking."
He pushed her into her bedroom. She really did need a shower, so she took off her clothes and threw on her robe. When she stepped out, Rich shoved a glass of wine in her hand and told her he'd started the water. She had seven minutes before the fish was done. He gave her another shove and closed the door behind her.
Becca took a short shower, which left her two minutes to dress. What does a girl wear when her friend who happens to be a guy cooks dinner and even brings her ugly flowers? She always got a kick out of wearing her scruffy clothes around him, just to tick him off. Then she remembered the way he seemed unable to keep himself from touching her when she wore her cashmere sweats—not that she was going to wear them again, that might look as if she wanted him touching her, which she definitely didn't. But she could dress a little nicer.
She threw open her closet and pulled out a lounge set her mom bought her that she didn't hate. She'd never worn it because she had no one to wear it for—not that it was overly sexy or anything, it was just too nice to hang around the house in unless she had company. It was winter white with a gathered Queen Anne neck line, long tight sleeves, and pants you wouldn't know were to sleep in unless you touched them. She debated whether or not to wear a bra with it. Since she currently had a real shortage of bras, and unfortunately wasn't well enough endowed to make a bra necessary, she'd go without. Tossing the shirt over her head, she sighed as the material flowed over her. Damn, if she'd known Tencel—a fabric made from bamboo—was this soft and silky, she'd have worn the PJs before. She pulled on the pants and ran her hands through her hair. It was almost dry, one of the perks of having short hair. She took one last swig of her wine for Dutch courage. After eating more than a few of Rich's creations, she thought she needed it.

Rich did his best to make everything look presentable. The rice looked fine. The cashier was right, it was great in the microwave. So was the broccoli. The salad looked like salad. Rich figured even he would have trouble screwing that up. The oven timer went off, and he grabbed the oven mitt, proud that he remembered, but the fact that his hand still hurt whenever he got near anything hot probably helped his memory. He was beginning to wonder if it was psychological. Being a psychology professor, it wouldn't surprise him. Still, he was getting to be an old hand at this cooking thing. He took the fish out of the oven, set the pan on the stove, and with a fork, stuck the fish, and—wonder of wonders—it flaked. Amazing!
He took the fish out of the pan and put it on a plate with some rice and broccoli. He placed a few pieces of lemon beside it, like they do in the restaurants, and set them on the table just as Becca left her room.
Rich stared. He couldn't get over the transformation. She'd come home in her jeans and sweatshirt, looking angry and tired, not to mention dirty, and ten minutes later, she looked edible. She was all white and flowing and well, gorgeous.
"You cooked this? By yourself?"
Rich did his best to collect himself. "Yeah, I got the recipe from the guy at the fish market, and I called Vinny once. I didn't know what a Pyrex pan was." He pulled out her chair for her and waited for her to sit. When she did, he put his hand on her shoulder; he wanted to see if what she wore was as soft as it looked. It was.
Becca placed her napkin in her lap. "Wow, I'm impressed. Everything looks great. I didn't think I was hungry, but now I'm starved."
Rich filled her wineglass and sat. "A toast."
Becca held up her glass.
"To the future."
Becca touched her glass to his. "To the future." But the look on her face was a mixture of hurt and disgust.
Rich watched her over the rim of his glass while he took a sip. "What's the matter?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. You know, just the normal annoyances. Framers who can't read blueprints who put walls up in the wrong places and tell me I'm wrong. What about you? How'd it go with Gina?"
Rich noticed she still hadn't taken a bite, so he figured he might as well try it. It would also get him out of answering her question. He took a forkful of fish, managed to get a little rice on there, and took a bite. He couldn't believe it. It tasted great. He motioned for her to taste it and watched as she took a tentative bite. She chewed, her eyes widened, and she moaned. Yup, Becca actually moaned. Rich couldn't believe that getting a woman to moan by feeding her was almost as much fun as getting her to moan the old fashioned way.
"Oh my God, this is amazing. Wow." She took a sip of wine, and her little pink tongue darted out to lick a drop off her lips then she shoveled another forkful into her mouth.
"Thanks." He tried the broccoli, and even that tasted pretty good. It wasn't his mother's—she must do something special to it. Knowing her, it probably involved olive oil and garlic. Still, it was nice and crunchy and the most amazing color green, almost as pretty as the color of Becca's eyes.
Becca was quiet while she ate, and eat she did. She cleaned her plate, another first. Rich kept refilling her wine, waiting for her to loosen up so he could ask her if she'd help him out. He'd just wing it. It had always worked in the past.
When they finished, she stood and picked up her plate. He took it from her. "No, I've got it. I remembered what you said and tried to clean as I went, so it'll be an easy job. Why don't you take your wine and see what's on TV? Or better yet, why don't we watch one of the movies you brought home?"
Becca looked guilty. "You said you were going out with Gina. I didn't think you'd be home so I got chick flicks."
"I don't mind, just as long as next time I get to pick." When he looked up from piling the dishes, he knew he hadn't gotten away with it.
"You never told me what happened with Gina."
Rich shrugged. "She's seeing someone else. Annabelle of all people fixed her up with him."
Becca looked a little pissed on his behalf. "So you did all this for nothing?" It was nice of her not to say I told you so, because she had.
Rich topped off her wineglass and his, finishing the bottle. "I wouldn't say that. I fed you, didn't I?"
"Yeah, and it really was great. Still, I'm sorry, Rich."
"I was thinking…"
She followed him into the kitchen carrying her wine and the empty bottle. "That sounds dangerous. Even more dangerous than you doing laundry."
He ignored the cut. "I still have that dinner to go to with Dean Stewart, and since I never mentioned Gina by name, I thought that since you were here and we're technically living together, maybe you'd go with me."
"You want me to lie?"
"No, more like act as if we're together. You don't have to come out and actually tell a lie."
"Oh yeah. That makes all the difference." She threw her hands up, and when she realized she was still holding her wineglass, slammed it on the counter shattering it. "Shit."
The sound of shattering glass startled him. "Are you all right?" He grabbed her hand and examined it. She could have really done a job on herself, but he didn't see a scratch, thank God.
"I'm fine." She pulled her hand from his and moved to pick up the pieces.
"Don't touch it. I'll clean it up."
Becca huffed. "I broke it. I'll clean it up."
Christ, she was difficult. "I thought you said I had to do all the cooking and cleaning? So would you let me do it already? I'd really rather not add your blood to the mess."
"Fine. Clean it up if you want. You can cook dinner, ply me with a few glasses of wine, and clean up after me. It's not going to help your cause."
Rich made sure she was well away before bringing the garbage can to the counter. With a few pieces of paper towel, he swept the glass into it. "Come on, Becca. It's one night. It'll be fun. Dinner, dancing, and you'd really be saving my ass. Please, Bec. I'm kinda desperate here."
Becca rolled her eyes as if she didn't believe him. "Don't tell me you don't know anyone else."
"I've been gone a long time, and since I got back, I've been seeing Gina. I really don't know anyone but my students. You're it, Becca. Please?"
She crossed her arms under her breasts, which did amazing things to the look of that top she was wearing. Christ, his professional life might be hanging in the balance, and he was concentrating on her breasts. He was most certainly going to hell. He thought back to the last time he went to confession. Yup, definitely to hell, and he'd get there quickly if his brother-in-law, Mike, knew what was going through his mind. He was so f*cked.
Becca walked over to the couch and flopped down. "So that was the reason behind the dinner and the wine. You were just trying to soften me up so I'd go to this dinner with you."
"No."
She tossed a pillow at him. "You are so busted. That's exactly what you did."
He tossed it back. "No. I'll admit to wanting to help you get into the right mood before I asked you. But that's not why I cooked dinner. I cooked dinner because you looked kind of sad this morning, and I wanted to thank you for all the help."
She sat up a little and pulled the pillow to her chest. Rich mentally rolled his eyes. Christ, he had to get his head out of the gutter.
"No kidding?"
She had the same look in her eyes now as she did when she found him sitting in the smoke-filled apartment holding on to Tripod for dear life. He wasn't sure what that look meant. "No kidding."
She put the pillow down, stood, and walked over to him. She smelled really good. He knew it was her shampoo and soap, because he'd sniffed them when he was in the shower, but it smelled a whole lot better on her. "Well, in that case." Becca stood so close; he was too stunned to do anything but put his hands on her waist. "You're welcome. And since you're so desperate, I'll go to the dinner."
"Thanks." The next thing he knew Becca was hugging him. Man, it was so nice to be able to hug a woman and not have to practically kneel to do it. She was the perfect height, and she wasn't wearing a thing under that outfit of hers. He swallowed hard. Damn, he was going to hell.