“Also, they are five times more likely to inhibit the growth of cancer cells.” He held up the chicken. “Frying pan?”
I nodded to the cupboard in the corner. He went to it, pulled out a cast iron skillet, and kept talking. “They are best eaten raw, but tonight, I’m going to roast them with just a little salt and pepper, and some olive oil.”
His jeans sat low on his hips. I found his stockinged feet oddly erotic. The sleeves on his green Henley were pushed up to his elbows.
I jumped up on the counter and took a sip of wine. “Fascinating.”
He paused and smiled at me. He pointed the chef knife at me and I recoiled in mock horror. “You jest, but these are hard to find.”
I laughed. “And why do you even know this?”
“I googled it.”
“Well, I appreciate the science lesson,” I teased. He started chopping the carrots. “Can I help?”
“Why don’t you start the couscous.” He continued dicing the chicken into tenders.
We talked about his family while we cooked. And while we waited for dinner to be ready, we talked about mine. I sat on the counter. He leaned against the one opposite me. It was normal and comfortable. And the sense of intimacy terrified me.
We sat at my small kitchen table. Our knees touched. He frequently put his hand on mine.
When dinner was finished, he cleared our plates, washed and rinsed them. He poured more wine in my glass. He grabbed my hand. “C’mon.”
Pulling me into the living room, he settled me on one end of the couch. He sat in the middle, pulled my feet onto his lap and massaged them.
I closed my eyes and sighed. “That feels so good.”
He pushed his thumb into the sole of my feet. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. “Brett, don’t you think we should talk about this?”
“What is this?”
“You and me. What happened.” I sipped my wine.
He leaned his head back on the cushions. With a sigh, he let go of my feet and ran his hands over his face. “Do you regret making love with me?”
“No, but I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“What impression am I getting?”
I raised my eyebrows.
He turned back to me, shifting and raising a knee onto the couch. “I know I didn’t give a very good first impression, but I think you like me. I like you.”
“I do like you.”
“How about if we do something fun tomorrow? Like real tourists. No pressure to examine what this is.”
Slowly, I asked, “To get to know each other better?”
He raised his hands. “Sure.”
I swatted him playfully on the arm. “Don’t pacify me.”
He chuckled. “I’m not. I want to do things with you.”
I pondered what he would find fun, and asked, “What do you normally do? How do you spend your free time?”