“We’re celebrating you, Ken Doll.” He turns back to the stove.
I lean in and smell the flowers. This color is my favorite, but I don’t remember telling him that.
“How did you know I like pink roses? I never told you.”
He chuckles, still focused on the pan. “I know a lot about you, babe. I pay attention.”
I stare at the back of his head.
“Like what?” I ask.
He turns the burner down and faces me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The candlelight catches the angles of his face, and he looks stupidly handsome, like he knows exactly what he does to me.
“You chew on your bottom lip when you’re thinking hard about something. You hate the sound of ice in a glass, but you won’t ask for no ice because you think asking is more annoying. You weirdly won’t eat ketchup on a burger, but you dip your fries in it.” He pauses. “You hum when you draw. You don’t even know you’re doing it.”
I don’t say anything.
“You tuck your hair behind your left ear when you’re nervous, never on the right. You order coffee with oat milk, but you actually prefer whole milk. You love naps, and you get really cranky when you’re tired, hungry, or horny. And when you’re happy—like genuinely happy—and you laugh, you scrunch your nose right here.”
Tears stream down my cheeks. “You noticed all that about me?”
“I see you, Kendall.”
He pushes off the counter and walks toward me. All I can do is kiss him like he’ll disappear.
“Aw, please don’t cry.”
“They’re happy tears, I promise,” I tell him as he wipes and kisses them away.
“I have to go stir that,” he says.
“Go,” I tell him, patting his ass as he walks away.
I take a sip of my wine and watch him cook. Five minutes later, he plates everything with more care than I expected. He fills shallow bowls with pasta, shrimp, and fresh parsley. He carries them to the table by the large windows, where more candles are burning.
Patterson pulls out my chair.
“Um … I didn’t know you were capable of this,” I say.
He places his hand over his heart, acting offended. “Give me a fucking break. I’m a hopeless romantic.”
“Ahh.” I nod. “LovingTitanicsuddenly makes sense.”
He sits across from me and chuckles. “If you ever tell anyone that, I will deny it.”
We eat and talk about everything and nothing. The delivery, Dennis’s reaction, the way my dad’s painting made him emotional. Patterson tells me about practice, about Callan threatening to ruin his life if he gets suspended again. I tell him about the team huddle painting and how I almost cried in the van because I was so overwhelmed with happiness. Everything is going so well.
After dinner, he clears the plates and comes back to find me standing by the window, looking out at the city. He spins me around and pulls me close before we start swaying. One of his arms is around my waist. We’re barely moving, and after a moment, he hums something soft against my hair.
“What are you humming?” I ask.
“I’m making it up as I go.”
I laugh as he pulls away and puts a record on the player.
“‘When a Man Loves a Woman,’” I say as he walks up to me and pulls me close to him.
“Why not? It’s a classic,” he tells me.
