“Okay. French, Italian, and bleu cheese.”
“Hang on.” I jog back in, open the fridge, and pull out the first two on her list. I’ll have to figure out the bleu cheese dressing for next time.
I halt my progress.
Next time?
Fuck.
On the patio, I set the bottles down on the table, then flip the meat. Hers will be done quicker than mine. I prefer my steak medium well, so I’ll take hers into the house when it’s done and plate it. In the kitchen, I open the oven door and check the baked potatoes. They’re done, so I turn off the heat and let them sit in the warm oven.
Back to the patio I go to retrieve her steak. Placing it on the pan, I face her. “Come on into the kitchen so you can get your baked potato doctored up.”
She pushes out her chair, walks through the open patio door and into the kitchen. When she sees the spread I’ve laid out, she says, “This is––”
What? It’s what?
Fuck, I hope it’s okay. Is she thinkin’ this isn’t up to par?
“Nice. Thank you for cooking.”
“No problem. I enjoy it. My kids are shit in the kitchen. Somebody’s gotta do it.”
“It was always me…” She looks away. “Never mind.”
She doesn’t want to talk about him. Me neither, if I’m bein’ honest. I point to the stuff on the counter. “I’ve got butter, sour cream, chopped bacon, chives, cheese, and salt and pepper. If there’s something else you want, tell me, and I’ll see if I have it.”
“Wow.” I see her smile. “This is really amazing, Nate.” She leans in and kisses me on the cheek, and I’m taken aback.
When she adds “Thank you” to the mix, I can’t even hear her. All I can think about is her soft lips on my face. Why is that sensation making me dizzy?
I pull my steak off the grill and plop it onto my plate. Sitting down across from her, I raise my knife to cut into the meat and ask, “What’s the deal with your ex?”
Fuck. Why did I go there? Maybe I want to know what I’m up against.
“The deal?” So far, she’s been cutting dainty little pieces of meat from her steak and nibbling.
“Yeah. What happened? Who divorced who?”
“Idivorcedhim.”
Interesting. “Why? How long were you married?”
“Together fourteen years, married for twelve. We were high school sweethearts––started dating our senior year.”
“So, what happened?”
“We grew apart.”
“That’s it?”
She places her utensils down onto her plate, then rests her arms in her lap. “There’s more to it than that.”
“What is it then?” Our eyes meet, and I see something pass over her baby blues. A cross between sadness and anger. “He cheat on you?” If he did, he’s a bigger asshole than I assumed he was already.
“I’m not sure about that. I have my suspicions, but honestly… that would have been a relief.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
