He steps in close, all heat, irritation, and grease-smudged gorgeousness. “Why don’t you kiss it better?”
“Since I can’t reach the top of your head, you’ll need to bend down,” I say sweetly.
He gives his knees a bounce, like he’s considering it, then he straightens with a tiny grimace.
“Sympathy kiss it is, old man,” I tease, and give him a quick peck on the lips.
“Watch it, little mouse,” he grumbles.
I give him a flirty wink. “Come on, you can help me grill. Grab the plate of steaks on the counter and follow me.”
“So, where’s Lucas? I haven’t seen him.”
“He somehow scored a dinner meeting with Jacob and Marcus.”
“Oh, what for?”
I pick up my saucepan and carry it with me. Dom, forever the gentleman he is, opens the door.
“I think Lucas wants to get away from California. He’s lived there his whole life. It fits him, but at the same time, it doesn’t. Anyway, Marcus and Jacob approached him about cooking for Matthew House. He said they were meeting to discuss details.”
We expanded the deck after Finn moved, so now it’s large enough for a table and a couple of chairs. Most importantly, my GrillHorn Master 6500 fits perfectly. It’s a forty-eight-inch grill with a partial flat top—my pride and joy. I enjoy cooking outdoors when I can, but it’s not often enough.
I set the saucepan on the flat top to start the bourbon garlic cream sauce, turning the heat to a low simmer.
Dom glances around. “I’m glad you’re using the space.”
“I’m glad you took time out of your schedule to help build it.”
He shrugs. “I know what it’s like living in a box; a deck’s an upgrade.”
I lay the steaks on the grill with a satisfying sizzle. “Sometimes I come out here in the morning with coffee and just sit. Salty air, seagulls plotting robberies… I know it’s hard to believe, with my death-goblin wardrobe, but I like being outside.”
He raises a brow.
“Okay, well, not on a ninety-degree, full-sun-and-humidity kinda day, but in fall. Come on, who doesn’t like fall?”
“You mean the two weeks a year of actual fall we get.”
“And what a glorious two weeks it is.” We both laugh. It feels easy. Too easy.
“So, you don’t want to live in the apartment over Ink Me for the rest of your life?” he asks, leaning on the railing.
I flip the steaks over, searing the other side, while I think about his question. It’s not the question of where I’ll live that throws me, it’s more about the future. When I think about it, I haven’t been doing much long-term thinking.
“I don’t,” I say. “I want open air and trees and water, not a stuffy apartment.” The char looks perfect, so I cut the heat, drop the lid, and set a timer on my phone. “I’m realizing I haven’t thought much beyond the next step. Culinary school, the cookbook… my horizon’s been about six inches in front of my nose for years.”
“What do you see now?” Dom asks.
I stir the cream sauce in slow circles. Twenty-seven feels like I should own a five-year plan and a color-coded calendar. Instead, there’s this quiet voice in my chest saying here, this. Be where your feet are. LA moves like a treadmill someone else controls—faster, faster—and I’ve been running because everyone else is. I don’t want to get ahead; I want to be present.
“A house,” I say, surprising myself with how easy it is to picture. “Trees. A big back yard, so maybe I can get a dog. Lazy Sundays.” I scrape the spoon along the bottom of the pan,listening to the small, satisfying sounds. “Something that feels like breathing room… and mine.”
“Alex will lose his mind picking the dog that fits your personality,” Dom says.
I narrow my eyes. “And what dog ‘fits my personality’ exactly?”
He stands up and walks over to me, pulling me in from around my waist. “Kinda bratty,” he muses. “Spontaneous zoomies. Surprisingly soft when someone feeds him.”
