His eyes warmed and the corners of his mouth twitched into another smile. He hadn’t changed from this morning, but he still looked damn good. The navy blue t-shirt hung close to his lean form, and below, faded jeans and bare feet.
“Are you ready to eat?” On the stove, a pot boiled, sending tendrils of steam into the air. The smell of garlic was faint but delicious.
“You cook, boss?” I had assumed we’d order out.
“I can make a few things that are edible, yes.”
“It smells good. What is it?”
“Pasta.”
“Okay.” I set my purse down on the counter, which he picked up and put in the entryway closet. “You realize that pasta is a vague descriptor?”
“Pasta, with meat. Does that help?” His face was unreadable.
“I, like, have no idea if you’re kidding. It’s impossible to tell with you sometimes.”
He smiled, amused. “Chicken pesto and penne pasta.”
“I’m allergic to pine nuts.”
His grin froze. “You are?” His gaze went to the skillet beside the boiling pot where I could see the chicken sautéing in the pesto sauce.
It was kind of fun to watch him derailed, but I didn’t let it last too long. “No, not really.”
Oh, I could see in his eyes that he both did and didn’t like that. He came to me and leaned in for a kiss, and at the last second pulled away, denying me.
He hadn’t lied; the meal he’d cooked was good. It wasn’t some special family recipe or anything crazy-fancy, but it was good. Of course it was. He seemed to be good at almost everything.
We chatted about random things, movies and music, discovering where we had similar tastes and teasing when we found the other person’s likes didn’t match our own. The sun’s journey had brought it low in the sky, and the room was full of warm, amber-colored light.
I tried to help clean the dishes, but he’d rather do it himself. He was so particular. When the last item had been put away and his kitchen had returned to full order, he set his attention on me. The air in the room was thick and difficult to breathe.
“Did you,” I asked on a hesitant voice, “get the supplies you needed?”
“Yes.” He went to the freezer and pulled out a bottle of some sort of golden liquid, setting it on the counter.
Tequila.
“Seriously?” I asked, kind of annoyed.
He gave me an indecent look. One that said he wasn’t joking. Two shot glasses appeared from somewhere, and there were lime wedges in a plastic bag pulled from the fridge.
“These are your supplies?”
“There are other supplies in my bedroom.” His face was abruptly serious. “I think this will help you relax and like it, but . . .” He struggled to put what he wanted to say into words. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to, or just because you think I want to.”
I stared at the bottle where condensation was already frosting the sides. I understood what he was saying. “Don’t worry, boss. If I don’t like it, you’ll hear about it.”
He unscrewed the cap and poured us each a shot. I picked it up in one hand and readied the lime in the other.
“Well then, bottoms up,” he said, straight-faced.
I knocked mine back and bit into the lime, my eyes shut tight as the liquid burned down my throat. “Ugh.”
He raised an eyebrow as he poured a second shot for me, amused at my lightweight, girly reaction.
“I should warn you, me and tequila usually aren’t friends in the morning.” I slammed the second one, making an even louder noise of disgust this time. “One more should do it,” I said, holding out the glass for him to fill.