The Lineup Page 16

  “Oh.” Her shoulders are stiff as she talks. What’s it going to take to see her actually loosen up—but not in a weird I’m trying to slip my hands down your pants for no reason way. “Um, comfort food, well, I guess guacamole.”

  “Really?” I ask, slightly stunned. For Knox, it’s Oreos, for Carson it’s M&M’s now—used to be brownies—I guess I just assumed she’d pick something sweet as well.

  “Why is that such a shock?”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say guacamole before. Do you have an accompanying chip with that? Scoops, black bean tortillas, a regular old Lay? Maybe a pretzel or pita chips?”

  “Carrots.”

  I blink . . . a few times. “Your go-to I need comfort meal is carrots dipped in guacamole.”

  “Have you ever tried it?”

  I finish the last spoonful and set the empty cup down. I lick my lips thoroughly, soaking up every last drip of ice cream. “I’m a healthy man, Dottie. I work out every day, I eat like a champion most of the time, kale being consumed daily, but I can tell you right now, carrots dipped in guacamole holds no appeal to me whatsoever.”

  “You say that now. Just wait, one of these days I’ll make you try it. Maybe I’ll bring a guacamole platter over whenever Emory and Knox have another celebration.”

  “Or, you can prove me wrong and bring it over this week. Show me what this comfort food is all about.”

  She thoughtfully nods. “You know what, I will.”

  * * *

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful in my life,” I say, taking in the beautiful plating and artistic cuts of carrots, displayed on a wooden charcuterie board. Yellow and orange carrots decorate a wooden bowl of guacamole—sans tomatoes, smart woman—while sliced bell peppers border the outside. “You did this?”

  She chuckles. It’s quiet, but it’s still there. “No, my chef made it for me. I don’t cook.”

  “You don’t cook?” I ask, not understanding that concept. “Why not?”

  “Never been good at it, never had the time to learn. My personal chef is amazing, so I just rely on him and his husband to feed me.”

  “You don’t cook at all? Not even a little?”

  “Does heating things up in the microwave count?”

  “Not even,” I say, picking up a carrot in the shape of a flower. Who has time to do something like this?

  I guess a personal chef.

  “I’m afraid to eat these,” I admit. “They’re too fancy.”

  “I have no problem with it.” Still in her suit jacket and matching skirt with light blue blouse, she takes a carrot flower, scoops up a chunk of guacamole, and pops it in her mouth, tearing the flower apart with her teeth. She closes her eyes and makes a yummy noise in the back of her throat. “So good, and better than your ice cream.”

  I laugh at that and dip my carrot into the guac as well. “I can promise you one thing, this might taste good, but it’s not going to be anywhere near ice cream level.” I pop the carrot in my mouth and chew.

  Yeah, it’s good. It’s a carrot with guac on it, but would I lean on this if I had a bad day? If I needed a pick-me-up? If I was trying to apologize to someone? Nope. This I’d eat during the season as a snack to stay healthy.

  “What do you think? Amazing, right?”

  I chew and swallow and then choose my words wisely.

  On a steady breath, I clasp my hands together and say, “I’ve had better.”

  “What?” Her eyes widen, playful insult taking over. “How on earth could you say that? This is clearly amazing, and your taste buds are lacking in sophistication.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I shake my head and hands, trying to erase her statement from the air. “You did not just say that.”

  When I look up at her, she has a small smile playing against her lips. The light tug, that tiny hint of amusement, fuck, it turns my stomach upside down and unleashes all sorts of butterflies. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than the smallest of smirks from Dorothy Domico.

  She casually picks up another carrot, dips it, and says, “You haven’t proven me wrong yet.”

  “Are you challenging my palate?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh . . . It. IS. ON.” I push her platter away. “Take that somewhere else, I have some planning to do.” I grab a pen and a piece of paper from one of my drawers.

  “Planning?” she asks, confused.

  “Yeah, this Friday, you’re about to get schooled.”

  “Schooled in what? Good food?”

  “No.” I hold up the pen. “Not just good food, but how to make good food.”

  She shakes her head and picks up her platter off the counter. “Oh, no. You’re not getting me in the kitchen. Nice try.” She flashes one hand. “These fingers don’t go near knives.”

  “They will Friday.” I dab the pen tip on my tongue and pretend to write something down.

  “You’re ridiculous. It’s not happening.”

  “Oh, okay, sure . . . it’s not happening.” I stare her dead in the eyes. “It is so fucking happening.”

  * * *

  Dottie: I have to work late on Friday, sorry.

  Jason: I’ll wait up. I’ll snack on some carrots and guac.

  Dottie: Why do I feel like you’re being sarcastic?

  Jason: I am. I don’t think I want that flavor combo in my mouth again.

  Dottie: Just like I don’t ever want your potato salad in my mouth again.

  Jason: DON’T. YOU. DARE. SAY. THAT.

  Dottie: Why are you so dramatic?

  Jason: Why are you so wretched?

  Dottie: Wretched . . . or right?

  Jason: Wretched, most definitely wretched.

  * * *

  Dottie: Just learned I have to go north for the weekend, so I really can’t make it Friday. I’m leaving Thursday night.

  Jason: Who’s making you go?

  Dottie: My inner self.

  Jason: It’s not a work thing?

  Dottie: No, it’s a sanity thing.

  Jason: Great, I’ll pack my bags. We can make the cooking lesson an all-weekend thing.

  Dottie: I’ll pass.

  Jason: I can drive, but that means it’s my playlist.

  Dottie: You’re not going.

  Jason: Can you give me the address? I like to plan the trip.

  Dottie: Why don’t you ever listen?

  * * *

  Jason: Picking you up in twenty. I have your suitcase. Lindsay is all set with the plants for the weekend.

  Dottie: I still can’t believe you forced your way into this trip.

  Jason: See what consistent nagging and selfies in flannel can do?

  Dottie: If you send me one more picture of you looking down at the camera to see how many chins you can form, I’m going to physically hurt you.

  Jason: Those are classic. You should be saving them.

  Dottie: Yes, to remind me how annoying you are.

  Jason: I like that we’re back to our old repartee, I missed it. Can’t wait to squeeze your cheek when you get in the car.

  Dottie: Why the hell would you do that?

  Jason: Seems like the thing to do. You get in the car, I squeeze your cheeks, ask how your day was, and then hand you one of the many snacks I packed for our trip.

  Dottie: You packed snacks?

  Jason: What kind of lady of the house would I be if I didn’t?

  Chapter Fifteen

  DOTTIE

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Dad.” I startle, turning around to see him leaning against my doorjamb. It’s past seven, the office is cleared out, I let Jessica leave early today, and I was just finishing some work. I changed into a pair of leggings and a loose-fitting sweater so I’m comfortable on the drive. “I thought you were already home.”

  “Nope. I had some phone calls to make.” He points at my outfit. “You weren’t wearing that earlier, were you?”

  “No. I changed. Heading to the ca
bin for the weekend. Need a little R and R.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. One of the things I wish I did more when I was younger was take a breather. I don’t want you running yourself ragged.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been feeling it lately.”

  Having worked until eight or nine at night all this week, I’m starting to drag, and it’s showing in my work, in my meetings, in my whole life. I made the decision quickly and was going to ask Jason to watch the plants for me, but of course, he found a way to include himself in the trip. When Lindsay started texting me like a madwoman, asking me what was happening and why she’s uprooting her child so I can go north with Jason Orson, I knew his ticket to the cabin was stamped.

  I told her we’re friends, and we are . . . we’re friends who like to annoy each other. I’ve been trying to find an easy way to start dating this man, maybe ask him out to dinner, but for the life of me I can’t get up the nerve. How reminiscent of college days when I couldn’t find the courage to even talk to him. Plus, odd as it might sound, I like how things are right now. I have some time with the Carltons while they’re away on vacation.

  I got an email from them Tuesday night saying they were going to take a small trip to Vermont. They wanted to sit down, relax, and consider their options now that they’re aware I have someone serious in my life—but when did business deals revolve around personal lives? And I can’t help but wonder, if I were a guy, would this be a factor?

  Either way, after I got their email I started wondering when I last went to our cabin. It had been a mini vacation after an intense infrastructure summit in California. Considering how overworked I felt, and also how hard I’d been working Jessica, I knew getting a small rest away from the office was a wise choice. Although, it won’t be as quiet as I’d anticipated . . .

  “Did you have Anderson clear out the cabin and stock it up?”

  “Yes. He was very sweet and even sent pictures to make sure everything was in order.”

  “He’s a good man.” My dad steps away from the door and walks over to me. He pulls me into a hug and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You sure you know what you’re doing? I’m afraid you got yourself into a pickle with this Jason thing.”

  I can understand his nerves over the situation, because I’m feeling the same concern. Not only because I lied to the Carltons, but because I like Jason.

  “I know, but if it makes you feel better, he’s about to pick me up… we’re going to the cabin together.”

  My dad steps back. “Really? Well, who says I want my daughter going to a cabin with a man for the weekend? I don’t even know him. He’s coming to pick you up?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Perfect.” He buttons up his suit coat. “I’ll go down and meet him.”

  “Dad, no. That’s not necessary.”

  “The hell it isn’t. I need to make sure he’s a man of integrity.”

  “Dad, I promise you—”

  But before I can finish, he’s headed out of my office and toward the elevators just as I get a text from Jason.

  Jason: Honk, honk. I’m here, sweet cheeks. I’m parked where you told me to park. Luggage is in the back, snacks are ready, playlist is warmed up, time for a road trip.

  Oh God.

  * * *

  “He’s parked in your spot?” my dad asks, walking faster than I’ve ever seen him walk.

  “Yes, I had Mark pick me up this morning.” I catch up to him, thankful for my tennis shoes, rather than my heels I went to work in. “Dad, please be nice. He’s just a friend right now, has no idea—”

  “He has no idea you told the Carltons that you two had been in a relationship for four years?” he huffed.

  I shrugged, something I never did, especially with my father. He then rolled his eyes and said, “My middle name is cool.”

  Somehow, I don’t believe that.

  We round the corner to my parking spot where a black SUV is parked. From our approach, Jason hops out of the car wearing a pair of jeans and one of the stupid flannel shirts he sent me a picture of. This one is forest green and black and despite hating everything about it, it fits him like a glove. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, brawny chest filling out the top . . . he’s totally got the sexy mountain man look going on, and I approve, especially the scruff he didn’t seem to shave off.

  Like the respectable man that he is, he lifts his hand in a wave when he sees both me and my dad and walks over, lending it out for a greeting.

  My dad takes it and gives Jason a good shake. “From the same blue eyes you two share, I’m going to assume this is your dad, sweet cheeks.” He winks at me then turns back to my dad. “Jason Orson. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Domico.”

  A small twitch forms at my dad’s lips, and I know he’s just about dying inside right now.

  Let me let you in on a little secret. I think Jason is the first man to ever come up and confidently shake my dad’s hand. My dad can be a very intimidating man and has been to any past boy or man who has met him—there aren’t many. They cowered, they never stood tall, and they were a big no on my dad’s end.

  But from the twitch at the corner of my dad’s mouth alone, I know he already appreciates Jason and his strength of character.

  “Jason, it’s a pleasure.” Instead of being in awe or “fangirling” over one of the best catchers in the country, my dad acts normal and doesn’t even mention the fact that Jason is a major league baseball player. “Going up north with my daughter?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jason sticks his hands in his back pockets and all I can focus on is the way his pecs press against the soft fabric of his shirt. “A-plus driver here in case you were wondering. No tickets, I enjoy a comfortable position of ten and two on the steering wheel, and I already established the rule in the car that it’s my playlist we’re listening to so there’s no fighting over music. Also, since it’s my off season, I took a siesta earlier today so I was fresh and alive for the drive tonight. I packed snacks, the tank is full, and there is water in reusable water bottles in the center console for each of us. Oh, and gum, in case I need something to chew if this one falls asleep.” He thumbs toward me. “I know how to use my fists if a bear comes near us, but I’m also not an idiot and know if it’s brown, hit the ground, if it’s black, fight that bastard back.” Oh my God, why is he so adorable? “I plan on teaching your daughter how to cook a proper meal this weekend, something she can make for you and your wife when you’re in town.”

  “Now this I like.” My dad chuckles. Chuckles. At Jason. I think I’m in an alternate universe.

  “I saw this great place that serves apparently the best pancakes in Illinois, so Sunday morning, I’d like to go there. I’d also like to hike, and when it comes to the sleeping arrangements, I was informed there are two bedrooms, and I plan on using one of them alone. No worries there.”

  Oh, I’m worried . . . that he plans on using the other one.

  “Well, looks like you’ve covered everything. This is a solid gentleman, Dottie.”

  I know. I really know.

  “Are you good? Am I allowed to leave now?”

  “I don’t know.” My dad scratches the side of his jaw. “Just from how charismatic this man is and his plans, I’m thinking I should take your place instead.”

  “I’m up for a bro weekend,” Jason says, his banter and decorum so easy. No wonder he’s loved so much. “Then I wouldn’t have to see the deep eye-roll your daughter gives me on a constant basis.”

  My dad leans in and says, “She gets that from me, but I will say this, I can’t possibly see myself eye-rolling with you. Do you have extra clothes packed for me?”

  “Do you mind sharing underwear with another man? Because I’m game.”

  My dad’s head falls back as he laughs. “I’ve never rubbed another man’s underwear on my junk, but never say never.”

  “Ohhh-kay, you two are done.” I reach up and press a kiss to my dad’s cheek. “We are leaving.” I take Jason by the arm and di
rect him back to the car. From over his shoulder, he mouths to my dad to call him, which my dad replies with a thumbs up.

  Ridiculous. Hilarious.

  When we’re saddled up in the car, I let out a long breath and shift my head to the side so I can look at him. Sincerely I say, “Sorry about that.”

  With the biggest smile on his face, his hand lands on my thigh. He gives it a good squeeze and says, “Don’t apologize, that was fucking awesome.”

  * * *

  The two-hour drive to the house was . . . fun.

  Oh my God, was it fun.

  I tried to hold back, but there were times that Jason had me laughing hard, and every time he heard my laugh, it was like he was spurred to make me laugh even harder. We played stupid car games that he packed, like car Bingo, which was difficult to play since it was dark—a miss on his end that he admitted it—we played would you rather, the alphabet game again, and even jammed out to some old school songs from the sixties. He found the playlist on Spotify and it was called Dancing Songs for Toddlers. I was skeptical at first, but surprisingly, I was the one begging for more. They were perfect songs for him to sing to. And he sang, boy, did he sing. Terribly.

  I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun, especially with just one person.

  “This place is beautiful,” Jason says, taking in the front of the cabin. “How can you not live here full-time?”

  “I know. I love it here.” I observe the much-loved family cabin with its wraparound porch and rustic-looking windows. With lush evergreens surrounding the beautifully renovated home on all sides, it’s calming and one of my favorite places of all time. I wish I had more spare moments to come up here. I make a mental note to put it into my calendar: more time at the cabin.

  “Let me carry that for you.” Jason takes my suitcase from me and then motions to the house. “Lead the way.”

  Leaves rustle in the wind as we make our way to the cabin, and then I unlock the front door and push it open for him. “The house has been prepped. There’s food and the power is on so we won’t be bumping over everything to find our way. The house is split into two sides, each side has its own master suite. I’ll take the west, and you can take the east.”