The Penalty Box (13 page)

Paul was pretty sure he could; that is, until the food actually arrived and he had to decipher Anthony's instructions for each dish. The almond cookies were self-explanatory. He'd figured out the marinated carrot sticks pretty fast; ditto the sea bass baked with artichokes. It was the green beans he was having a hard time with. He called the restaurant.

“Dante's. May I help you?” answered a woman with a very pleasant voice. Anthony's wife, maybe?

“Yes, hi, I need to speak to Anthony. It's an emergency.”

“Who should I say is calling, please?”

“Paul van Dorn.”

“Hold on.”

A few seconds later, Anthony picked up. “Let me guess: the almond cookies are too simple for your sophisticated palate.”

“No, everything's great. It's just these beans . . .”

“What about them?” Anthony asked suspiciously. “They were picked fresh, I swear on my mother's grave.”

“What am I supposed to DO with them? I can't read your handwriting.” He grabbed the foil lid, squinting hard. “The bigger the skull—”

“Butter the skillet! Butter the skillet!”

“Butter the skillet,” Paul repeated thoughtfully. “Ah.”

“Those concussions leave you retarded or what?”

“It's your handwriting that's the problem, not my brain!”

Anthony heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Butter the skillet, put the heat up to medium, and dump in the beans when the butter starts to foam. When the beans are nice and coated, add the grated cheese—which I packed in there for you because God only knows what kind of
immangiabile
cheese you have up there in the sticks and I only buy from Tony Culotto, the best—toss it all together, throw in a little salt if it needs it, and serve it immediately.
Capisce?
”

“Got it.”

“Good luck, brain boy,” Anthony said with a chuckle as he hung up the phone.

Butter the skillet.
Paul transferred Anthony's dishes to his cookware and disposed of the evidence, burying all the containers in the trash. There was no way Katie could fail to be impressed. The dishes that Anthony—correction, he—had prepared
were
simple yet elegant. There was nothing swimming in a cream sauce that would freak her out.

He checked his watch: ten minutes till game time. He'd made sure to tidy up, but he wasn't sure it mattered. Apart from the bare necessities, most of his life was still packed in boxes scattered around the house. He vowed daily he'd finish unpacking, but somehow, he never got around to it.

He'd picked up some candles to help create atmosphere, and had gotten some fresh flowers, too. His stereo system was set up, so that was a plus. Wine was chilling in the fridge and the table was all set. The only thing left to do was relax and wait for Katie—
and
keep an eye on the food in the kitchen. He looked around. Things looked just a little
too
perfect, so he loaded up the drain board with pots and pans and a bunch of utensils.
Much better.
Now it looked like he'd been playing chef all day.

His doorbell rang at seven on the dot. Paul was glad: One of the things he'd never gotten used to in Manhattan was the premium placed on being fashionably late. It drove him nuts. When he said seven, he meant seven, not seven-
ish
. One good thing about being back in Didsbury was the absence of all those ish-es.

“Hey.” Opening the door, he gave himself permission to drink her in. She was a vision, her long blonde hair shimmering softly in the fading sunlight, her coltish legs swathed in tasteful black trousers. The scarf he'd given her was tossed jauntily over the left shoulder of her maroon turtleneck. She was holding a bottle of wine.

“You look great,” Paul murmured, kissing her cheek as he ushered her inside. “I'm beginning to think that scarf is the only one you own.”

“It is,” Katie admitted.

“Well, it suits you.” He took the wine from her. “Why don't you sit down on the couch and I'll go open this.”

“Oh, no,” Katie replied in a teasing voice. “I want to see the chef at work.”

Paul nearly blanched. “Most of the work is done. But sure, come on.”

Katie inhaled deeply as he led her into the kitchen. “Smells great. What is it?”

“Well, there's marinated carrot sticks, and for a main dish, there's sea bass baked with artichokes. There's also green beans, but I still have to sauté those.”

Katie rested a hip against the counter, watching him uncork the wine. “And you cooked all this yourself?”

“Everything except the almond cookies.”

Katie nodded approvingly. “Very, very impressive Mr. van Dorn.”

“Thank you,” said Paul, not quite meeting her eye. He made a show of checking the oven. “Won't be too much longer. Just remind me I have to get started on the green beans in fifteen minutes or so.”

“No problem.”

Handing her a glass of wine, he poured some for himself. “Shall we?” he said, guiding her back out to the living room. Katie stopped in the middle of the room, surveying her surroundings.

“Did you just move in?”

Paul ducked his head, embarrassed. “Yeah, about six months ago.”

“
Six months ago?
From the look of things, I thought for sure you'd only been here a few weeks.”

“It takes me a while to get around to things sometimes,” Paul mumbled, easing himself down on the coach.

“The fireplace is nice,” she noted. “I always wanted a house with one of those.”

She meandered some more among the boxes, peering curiously into those that were open. One box in particular caught her attention; she crouched down to inspect it more closely, only to spring up and back away. “Oh, God.”

“What?” Paul shot forward, alarmed. “A mouse?”

“No, our high school yearbook. Please tell me you'll destroy it as soon as I leave.”

“We could look at it,” Paul suggested.

“Not unless you want to watch me commit seppuku on your living room floor.”

“Does that involve high heels and a spangly, push-up bra? If so, I'd love to watch.”

“Actually, it involves a sword.”

“That could be fun, too,” Paul murmured suggestively.

Katie closed the box, making a point of pushing it into a far corner.

“Oh, c'mon,” Paul protested. “It can't
all
have been bad.”

Katie stared at him.

“Haven't you ever heard the expression ‘That which does not kill me, makes me stronger'?”

Katie's eyebrows lifted. “A Nietzsche-quoting jock. I
am
impressed.”

“Hey, I made it to one or two philosophy classes when I was an undergrad.”

“Just one or two?”

Paul smiled sheepishly. “Well, you know, I had other stuff to do.”

“I'll bet.” She joined him on the couch.

“Seriously, Katie. You have to give Didsbury a little credit. It made you the woman you are today, right?”

She took a sip of wine. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“And it's not completely awful. I bet if you try, you can name three things about Didsbury you actually like.”

“Easy: you, my mother, and Tuck.”

“It can't be people.”

Katie sighed. “Fine.” She closed her eyes, concentrating. “Okay: it
is
gorgeous here in the spring and summer.”

“One.”

“Drummond's Fudge Shop—though I can't go in there anymore.”

“Two.”

“Winterfest.”

“And that's three.” Paul was waiting with a smile as her eyes sprang open. “See, not completely horrible.” He slid an inch closer to her on the couch. “I've always been a big Winterfest fan myself. Maybe we could go together this year.”

“Maybe,” Katie said faintly.

He chose to ignore the noncommittal nature of her reply, taking a sip of wine instead. “You did eat today, right?”

“Because we don't want you throwing up again, do we?”

Katie looked mortified. “Please promise me you'll never mention that again!”

His hand covered his heart. “I swear I'll never mention you throwing up again.”

“Honest?”

“Swear.”

“Okay, then.” Katie touched her glass to his, eyes twinkling wickedly.
“Deal.”

“Touching glasses is not how I seal deals, Professor.”

“Oh, no? Show me, then.”

A challenge. A dare. Paul loved those. Eyes fastened on her beautiful face, he carefully peeled her delicate fingers from around the stem of her wineglass, placing it on the floor along with his own. Then he took her in his arms, pressing his lips against hers. Mere contact sent electricity bulleting through his system, but it wasn't long before his head began to swim as he realized it was
she
who deepened the kiss,
she
who made her pleasure known as their tongues sought each other's hungrily. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. The realization excited him. He could feel her trembling against him as he tightened his embrace, but rather than soothe, he moved to conquer. Tearing his mouth from hers, he moved his lips to her throat, kissing, nipping. Katie's head fell back with a moan.

“More,” she whispered.

Paul crushed his mouth down on hers again. The spice of her perfume, the heady taste of her lips, the soft press of her breasts against his chest all conspired to drive him mad. And yet, in the back of his mind . . . food. He could hear Anthony's voice in his head yelling, “I cooked special for you and you let it burn, you ungrateful ‘tard!” It spoiled the mood. Paul pulled back, resting his fevered brow against hers.

“I hate to be a spoilsport,” he whispered, “but dinner is going to burn.”

Katie sighed. “I know.”

“Can we call a time-out?”

“You and your sexy sports talk.” Her fingertips traced his cheek. “That's fine.”

“Good.” Paul couldn't resist a wink as he rose, extending a hand to her. “Just make sure you leave room for dessert.”

 

 

Katie was proud
of herself: not only did she sip her wine slowly throughout dinner, but she actually
ate
, despite a mild case of the tummy wobbles brought on by the certainty that when dinner was through, she and Paul van Dorn were going to
do
it. Desire, hot and sharp, sizzled through her just thinking about it.

“Here, let me help you clear off the table,” she said and began gathering dishes.

“You don't have to do that,” Paul said immediately.

“I want to.”

“No, really,” he implored, but Katie was too quick for him. Picking up her plate, she carried it over to the kitchen garbage can, pressing her foot down on the lever that made the lid spring open. That's when she saw it: a sea of crumpled foil containers. Katie turned to Paul. His hands were held up in surrender.

“Guilty.”

Katie chuckled as she scraped the remains of her plate into the trash. “You could have told me the truth, you know.”

“How, after boasting to you that I could cook?”

“I don't care whether or not you can cook.”

“No, but you do care about the calorie count of every morsel you put in your mouth. I wanted to make sure dinner was tasty but not too fattening.”

Katie flushed with appreciation. “Thank you.” She looked at him curiously. “Where did you order from? Isn't the only take-out place around here Wang's?”

“It's a long story. But the food is from Dante's. In Brooklyn. Remember I told you about my friend Michael?”

Katie nodded. Michael, Michael, Michael. That's all she'd heard about over dinner: Michael and the Blades. Michael and his restaurant. “You talk about Michael an awful lot, you know.”

“Yeah?” Paul seemed thoughtful. “Well, he
is
one of my best friends. And he's the only one on the team who keeps in touch.”

“You talk about the past a lot, too,” Katie continued gently, making another trip out to the dining room to collect more dishes. Paul's eyes darted to hers as she returned to the garbage.

“What's wrong with that? Our past is what makes us who we are.”

“It can also stop us from fully living in the present, if we're not careful.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing? Living a half life?”

Katie hesitated. “You never talk about the Penalty Box or coaching.”

“I just started coaching,” Paul pointed out. “There's nothing
to
talk about.”

“It's not a criticism, just an observation. Maybe I'm aware of it because I spend so much time doing the opposite: trying to blot out the past.”

“Isn't that just as unhealthy?” Paul asked.

“Probably,” Katie answered. “I just get the sense that you haven't quite come to terms with things.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Let me worry about my head, okay? Your only concern is my heart.”

“But the two—”

“Enough.” He stilled her with a finger to her lips. “How 'bout this? Why don't you finish up in here, and I'll light a fire in the living room?”

“Sure, leave me to do the dishes.”

“Well, it
is
women's work.”

“Take that back!” Katie demanded, playfully smacking his arm.

Paul feigned cowering. “I take it back, I take it back.” He squeezed her shoulders lightly. “Yes to the fire?”