Sweet Little Bitch Page 6

He held them up and smiled. “I thought I’d cook dinner.”

  “You cook?” I asked, the surprise evident in my voice.

  “Yeah. I enjoy it. Is that okay?”

  I nodded still trying to picture Marty in the kitchen cooking. He kept doing things I didn’t expect and that added to the attraction.

  He walked inside as I stepped back to let him pass. “Do you like Italian?” he asked.

  Again, I nodded. I’d like anything he made. No man had ever cooked for me. Heck, no man had ever made me coffee. This was a new experience. I would be fine with sandwiches. However, from the bags in his hands I doubted that he planned on making Italian sandwiches.

  He headed toward the kitchen as if he were comfortable here. I wasn’t sure if that was good or not. “I tried to keep in mind you prefer healthy meals. The pasta is freshly made whole wheat and I went with vegetables instead of meat. I didn’t know where you stood with meat. I felt safe with the cheese though.”

  Wow wasn’t the response he was looking for, but it was all I could think. This was beyond thoughtful. It was sweet. Had I ever met a guy like Marty before? I wasn’t sure I knew they existed. He may be the one unique male in all creation.

  “That’s, uh, it’s really nice.” The words sounded silly as I stammered, but I couldn’t adequately voice my thoughts.

  He didn’t seem put off by my pitiful response. Setting the bags he was carrying down on the counter he looked back at me. “Do you mind if I rummage through the cabinets to find what I need or would you prefer I tell you and you grab it for me?”

  I shook my head, gathering myself. I needed a few moments alone to think this through. To decide if this was real or an act. Could Marty be this genuine? And if he was, why did he seem interested in me? Last night, my first real interaction with him was me talking nonstop about myself. How could that spark this kind of interest?

  “You can search for whatever you need. I don’t mind. This is the one room that is completely unpacked. I don’t cook often but Chantel does, and we should have the proper supplies.”

  Something about what I said made him seem to fight back a smile. I wasn’t sure what about that was funny but he diverted his eyes and focused on unpacking the bags. Fresh vegetables began to cover the space.

  “Who taught you to cook?” I asked, instead of excusing myself to get my thoughts together.

  “My grandmother. She was Italian. So, it’s what I cook best. When I was ten, she taught me how to make pasta and dry it. Something about cooking always interested me. I liked creating new things and testing ideas. It’s a hobby really.”

  I walked over and pulled out a stool to sit down. Marty’s past and present was suddenly more important than anything else. “You spoke about her in past tense. Has she passed away?” I asked before considering that it may be a sensitive subject with him.

  “Yeah. When I was seventeen. Cancer,” he said the word like the hateful disease it was. “It was hard to lose her, but harder to watch her suffer. Knowing her pain was over made her death easier to accept.”

  I hadn’t lost anyone close to me so I couldn’t say that I understood. I imagined it never went away, the sense of loss.

  “Any vegetable you aren’t fond of?” he asked me.

  I started to say no then paused. “I don’t care for beets, but I doubt you’re planning on putting them in a pasta dish.”

  He grinned. “No beets. We’re safe.”

  “Today, when I brought the cookies down, you weren’t home. I assumed you were working,” I said, and he nodded. I continued when he didn’t say anything more. “What is it you do?”

  He reached for a knife from our wooden knife block. “Firefighter.” He set the knife down beside the sink and began washing the tomatoes.

  I must have seen too many shirtless firefighter calendars because an immediate image of a shirtless Marty in his firefighter gear and those dimples flashed in my mind. That gave my pulse a little jump. The idea of a sexy firefighter was appealing, but then the reality of the daily danger he was in dashed that quickly.

  “I have a fear of fires. A fear of being caught in one, unable to get out. I can’t imagine having to be close to that regularly,” I said the words without thinking about it. I did that a lot with Marty. Blurted out my thoughts.

  “It feels good to save people. The power of putting out the flames is immense. But then there is the sadness that comes when lives are lost. It’s never gotten easier when we lose someone. It’s not every day that it happens, thankfully. A large portion of the time we get to the fire, secure the place, get everyone out, and get control of the fire. Sometimes it’s too late.”

  “What made you want to become a firefighter?” I asked him.

  He glanced up at me for a moment, his eyes soft. I understood asking him that was important and I sensed he appreciated the question.

  “When I was seven I witnessed a fire at a house on our street. The owners of the house were an older couple raising their granddaughter, The McMahouns.” He paused a moment, then continued. “The whole neighborhood stood outside terrified. I remember my mom was crying quietly and she held Mack tightly against her left side and me against her right. She was trembling and I could feel it. I was scared to see her like that. Then there were the people around us. Talking. I could hear them saying how the little girl was still inside. I knew Amanda. We had played on the playground with her many times. The grandmother’s wails were so loud as she cried out Amanda’s name.” He shook his head as if the memory was painful. “God, I think I had nightmares about that night and those shouts of desperation for years. Anyway, I saw a firefighter come out of a room on the second floor with a blanket wrapped around a body as he climbed down the ladder. The entire street went silent. Waiting. I don’t think anyone even breathed. When he got to the bottom of the ladder the grandmother took off running for them while shouting the girl’s name. The firefighter sat the body in his arms down and the blanket fell away from her. Amanda was black from the smoke and soot. She was coughing, but she stumbled and took a few steps before falling into her grandmother’s arms.” He looked up at me after turning on the burner to boil a pot of water he had just placed on the stove. “Amanda lived. Because a man was brave enough to go inside and get her. That stayed with me. I knew that was what I wanted to do.”

  He frowned at me and I was so lost in the story he had been telling me I didn’t understand his expression. Setting down his knife he walked around the counter and came to me.

  His hands cupped my face and as his thumbs brushed my cheeks, I realized it was a tear he was wiping away. “You’re crying,” he said.

  Marty

  EVEN NOW AFTER ALL THOSE years, after all the fires I fought, that memory still struck a chord with me. The emotion, the fear, the pain in the grandmother’s voice. However, having someone else hear it and show emotion like the tears on Fiona’s cheeks caused a stronger chord to pull tight in my chest. Her understanding was a connection I hadn’t thought possible this soon. I barely knew her. But as I held her face in my hands and brushed the tears from her cheeks I knew I wanted to know her more.

  Every small detail about Fiona was important. She was unique, and in this world, I’d found that unique was getting harder to find. A small smile tugged at her lips. “I didn’t realize I was crying,” she whispered.

  Her face wasn’t void of small flaws but those flaws made her perfect. She had tiny freckles on her nose and a tiny scar above her left brow. I wondered how she got the scar and in time I would ask. Her curly lashes were naturally black and long, outlining slightly tapered eyes that I knew combined with her cheekbones were a photographer’s dream. Her exotic looks came from her mother’s Spanish heritage.

  Leaning in, I pressed a kiss to the soft skin near her mouth but didn’t quite act on the temptation that resided there. Lingering a second longer than intended, I inhaled her sweet scent. When I pulled back giving myself the distance I needed before moving too fast, I heard her exhale and saw the sligh
t shiver she tried to mask.

  Without meeting her gaze because I wasn’t sure I could, I walked back over to the pot of water that was now boiling and added the pasta. She didn’t speak and I wasn’t sure there was anything to say. Silence wasn’t a bad thing. I enjoyed silence at the right time and this was one of those times.

  “You’re nothing like Mack,” she said after several minutes of silence.

  I lifted my gaze from the sauce I was making, to smile at her.

  “No I’m not, except for my DNA,” I replied.

  She laughed softly. “Mack has never been one of my favorite people,” she admitted, apologetically.

  Curious now, I decided I wanted to know how long she’d known Mack. “When did you meet Mack?”

  She shrugged. “About the time I met Brian. I guess it was a little over a year ago.”

  “Did you like Brian?”

  “People like Brian’s energy. His humor. But if you look beyond that you’ll be disappointed. I understood that. Most girls didn’t. He had a lot of haters.”

  I could see that. Mack had been similar in high school. “He should do well in the porn industry,” I said sincerely.

  “Absolutely. He will be a star in that world.”

  I laughed and she joined in.

  I had sautéed the vegetables that were done. I combined the sauce, noodles, and vegetables together to let them soak in the flavors while I started on the salad.

  “I should have asked if I could help do something. Instead, I have sat here and asked a million questions,” she said standing up.

  “Sit. I enjoy this. I don’t mind answering your questions.”

  She sat down. “I have a bottle of red wine. A man that Chantel was dating gave it to her with some roses and a letter telling her he had to end things. He was married and she didn’t know. I wouldn’t let her toss the wine against the wall because I looked at it and knew it was expensive. Would you like some? Seems fitting with this meal.”

  “Yeah, let’s drink that cheating bastards wine. I hope he spent too much on it,” I replied.

  “I’m sure he did,” she said with certainty. “He had also given her diamond earrings but she has since pawned them. And a designer purse that I refuse to let her sell. I want it when she decides she can’t look at it anymore.”

  Before I could respond to that she left the kitchen in search of the wine. I finished up the salad as she retrieved the bottle, two glasses, and found a cork screw.

  “Can you do it? I haven’t opened enough wine bottles to know how to do it correctly. I normally end up with a cork in the wine.”

  Taking the bottle, I made quick work of the foil at the top of the bottle and opened it, handing her the completely intact cork. “Keep it. As a memory. The night we drank the bastard’s wine.”

  “Chantel will like that.” She smiled. She took the cork and placed it in a bowl that sat on the kitchen table.

  I poured wine into both glasses and Fiona returned to take one. I waited until she took a slow sip and appeared pleased. “This is good,” she affirmed. I wondered if she had a lot to compare it to, but I drank some of mine, and she was right. It wasn’t cheap. The wine was rich and smooth.

  “Let’s eat.” I set my wine glass down, quickly made her plate and handed it to her. “Do you want to eat in here?”

  She shook her head. “It’s nice out tonight. Let’s eat on the roof,” she suggested.

  Stone had shown me the roof when we moved in. The setup with iron furniture and a fire pit along with candles that decorated the area was beautiful. But I hadn’t been up there since we moved in. Stone had said it was for all residents. In all honesty, I’d forgotten about it. I should have mentioned it to Mack because he could go there to smoke instead of our apartment’s balcony if it was even called a balcony since we were on the first floor.

  “Sounds good. I haven’t tried it out yet.”

  She took her glass of wine in one hand and her plate of food in the other. “Me neither. Let’s go break it in. For all the fancy decorating, I doubt Stone has used it either.”

  He seemed like someone who didn’t relax much. I had to agree with her assumption on that.

  “Don’t see much of him around,” I said as we walked out of her apartment and toward the stairwell leading to the rooftop.

  “I haven’t seen him since I signed the lease and gave him my check,” she said. “I think he lives here part-time. I googled him and found out some about him, but not much. I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t a psycho.”

  “Smart,” I replied. I hadn’t googled him at all. I’d just moved in without a thought.

  The moonlight casts a nice glow over the space, but I went to the cabinet Stone had shown me with the lights for the candles and lit several around the table before taking a seat across from her.

  Fiona’s face in the romantic glow surrounding us made this the most perfect meal of my life. Nothing could ever compare to this moment. I wanted more like it. More of her.

  Fiona

  NORMALLY I ENJOYED TRAVELING AND work. However, this trip to Miami I wanted to end quickly. I had been anxious to return home. The beach and parties didn’t appeal to me. When I asked to leave early instead of staying an extra day to enjoy the nightlife, I had surprised even myself.

  Chantel was home now and I knew she wouldn’t have done much in the way of unpacking. I could lie to myself and say I wanted to get home to finish the move in knowing that was a lie. My dark-haired, sexy, kind, thoughtful, smart, neighbor was the reason I was ready to return. He’d texted me a few times and we had spoken on the phone a couple times, but he was on the night shift so he was busy nights and sleeping during the day. I could tell when he called he was tired. The fatigue was present in his voice.

  I hadn’t wanted to bother him, so I didn’t text him or call. I let him do both. After our night on the roof, I had expected him to kiss me. I had expected him to do more than kiss me. He didn’t try anything though. He’d taken my hand, turning it this way and that in his and then he kissed it. Our night had ended with such a simple yet powerful gesture.

  The next morning I left for Miami. Leaving was the last thing I wanted to do. I knew he would be working when I finally arrived at the apartment, but I still had a small sliver of hope his truck would be outside. It wasn’t. The disappointment that he wasn’t magically there sank in, and I tried to brush it off as I got my bags and went inside. As I walked past, I glanced at his door longingly like a silly girl with a crush.

  Opening my apartment door, I could smell the vanilla from Chantel’s favorite candles. The soundtrack to Phantom of the Opera played over the speakers, and I could hear Chantel singing loudly along to the music. Dropping my bags at the door, I went to the kitchen to find Chantel dancing around singing into a wooden spoon wearing nothing but her panties and bra.

  She squealed when she spun around, surprised to find me standing there. She laughed at her ridiculous appearance and started singing into the wooden spoon again like she was entertaining me.

  I walked over to the stereo and turned the music down. I headed to the fridge for a sparkling water. “I see you’re working hard at unpacking,” I said as I shot her an annoyed glance.

  She shrugged. “I started, but I got hungry. I wanted something yummy and found brownie mix! At first I thought I was in the wrong apartment or that my roommate had gotten confused at the grocery store. I decided not to question my luck and began making a batch of brownies. Want to lick the spoon?”

  Shaking my head, I chose not to explain the brownie mix. I drank my water and hoped she didn’t ask. She studied me as she licked at the spoon. Lifting one eyebrow at me then another. It was a talent she was proud of.

  “But then . . .” she continued. “I saw this swanky little cork in the bowl and thought why that looks like it came from a fancy bottle of wine. A bottle that I knew too well . . .” She waited for me to say something.

  I kept drinking my water. I probably resembled a person that ha
d been stranded in a desert receiving their first glass of water.

  “What? No explanation for the wine drinking and brownie mix? Do we have another roommate I don’t know about?”

  Rolling my eyes, I walked over and took the cork from her. I wanted to keep that cork. I was afraid she’d break it or throw it away.

  “And then, I called Shay because I figured she’d want to know about the brownie mix . . .” Chantel trailed off again. Her eyes getting wide as she waited for me to say something.

  “Oh good grief, if you called Shay then you know the answers to all this. Why are you torturing me for answers?” I said knowing she didn’t need me to tell her a thing.

  Chantel threw her hands in the air dramatically. “Because,” she drew the word out to last a minute, “I want the details. The juicy wine drinking details. And I want you to make me cookies.”

  “Shut up.” I wasn’t ready to share Marty or the night we spent together with anyone yet.

  “You either start talking or I get more annoying,” Chantel said in a singsong voice.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” I snapped.

  “You BAKED FOR HIM AND DRANK MY WINE! There is something to tell!”

  With a sigh, I lifted my left shoulder. “He cooked for me. I thought the wine would taste good with the pasta.”

  Chantel covered her heart with her left hand and gasped loudly. “YOU . . . ATE . . . PASTA!?”

  “This is why I didn’t want to give you any details,” I pointed out.

  “But Fiona, you don’t eat pasta. I’m sorry if I am in shock. The brownie mix about gave me a heart attack. This is too much.”

  “It was whole wheat and fresh. Not processed,” I told Chantel not knowing why I sounded so defensive.

  “That makes this all more believable,” she snarked. She leaned on the counter with her eyes wide as she smiled at me. “Marty made you pasta he knew you’d eat. Soooo he took the time to get to know what you liked. That’s pretty damn sweet. And it sounds nothing like Mack.”

  “If they weren’t twins you wouldn’t know they were related,” I assured her.