“Sounds like a mood killer.”
“You have no idea. Plus, Justin kept checking his phone the entire time. There was some big game on, and he was more interested in the score than me.”
Eamon’s expression darkened. “What a fecking tosser.”
“Tosser?”
“Asshole,” he clarified quickly. “Guy sounds like a real piece of work.”
“He was.” I pushed the memory away. Justin belonged in my past, and I was tired of letting him take up space in my present. “Anyway, what about bad hookups? Please tell me you have at least one mortifying story to make me feel better about my own poor choices.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty.” Eamon leaned back in his chair, grinning. “There was this one guy in Vegas—gorgeous, built like a Greek god, and absolutely terrible in bed. Lasted about thirty seconds and then spent the next hour apologizing while showing me pictures of his pet iguana.”
“His iguana?”
“Named Fernando. Apparently, it was very talented and could play dead on command.” Eamon shook his head. “I learned more about lizard care that night than I ever wanted to know.”
“That’s… Wow.” I couldn’t stop giggling. “Poor guy.”
“Poor Fernando, more like. Having to live with someone that neurotic couldn’t have been easy.”
We dissolved into laughter, and I realized this was what I’d been missing. Not so much the physical attraction—though there was plenty of that—but the easy conversation, the shared humor, the feeling of being truly seen and appreciated by another person.
“This is nice,” I said without thinking.
“What is?”
“This. Dinner, conversation, laughing together.” I gestured between us. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to cook for someone who enjoys the food.”
Eamon’s expression grew serious. “How long has it been? Since you cooked for someone like this, I mean.”
“Five years,” I admitted. “Since Justin. I’ve made meals for friends, obviously, but this kind of dinner…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain the difference between cooking out of obligation or friendship and cooking because you wanted to nurture someone.
“I’m honored. This is the best meal I’ve had in a very long time.”
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not bullshitting you.” He reached across the table, covering my hand with his much larger one. “You’re incredibly talented, Charles. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate that is a fecking eejit.”
His thumb traced across my knuckles, such a simple touch, but it sent heat shooting straight through me. I stared down at our joined hands, marveling at how right it looked, how perfectly his fingers curved around mine.
“We should do the dishes,” I said, though the last thing I wanted to do was move.
“Probably,” he agreed, but neither of us made any effort to pull away.
Finally, reluctantly, I slipped my hand free and began clearing the table. Eamon helped without being asked, collecting plates and glasses. “You can stack them on the counter there so I can wash them.”
“No dishwasher?”
I shook my head. “I had to sacrifice something to ensure I had enough storage. It’s okay. I don’t mind doing the dishes.”
“I’ll help.”
And he did.
“You’re good at this,” I observed as he dried a plate with practiced ease. Most people I knew were so used to having a dishwasher that they’d never developed the easy routine of doing the dishes by hand, but he was different.
“Good at what?”
