“Thanks, J. I owe you. Would dinner work?”
“I’m famished. Dinner sounds great.” He swipes his arm across his brow, smearing it with a streak of oil.
“Come,” I say, extending my hand, then thinking better of it when I see the greasy marks on his hands and oil under his fingernails. “Time to get you cleaned up.”
“You’re offering to clean me?” His eyes dance with excitement as he leans in. “All of me?” Jared is the biggest flirt. He always has been. He just can’t help it.
“Hold your horses, Casanova. I’m offering my bathroom for you to clean up.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Only with you.”
“You’re also really sweet. Thanks for helping with my car, my garden, and my house.”
“It’s not a chore. You know I love spending time with you.” Mischief skips over his face. “And you also know I’m great with my hands.”
“Oh my god.” I slap a hand against my brow. “Make it stop!”
He holds up his dirty palms, chuckling. “I’ll put you out of your misery. I’m going to head home. I need a shower and a fresh change of clothes. What time is dinner?”
“Say an hour?”
“Works for me. Bye, babe.”
My eyes pop wide. He hasn’t called me that in years, and it’s not appropriate even if it does make my heart spike.
“Sorry. It slipped out.” He doesn’t look the least bit sorry. He’s not even pretending.
“It’s fine.” I don’t want to make a big deal about it. “Go get your smelly ass in the shower, and I’ll see you later.”
* * *
I’m just plating our dinner—chicken parmigiana with noodles and side salad—when Jared saunters into the kitchen with one hand behind his back.
“Something smells delicious,” he says, rubbing his free hand across his flat stomach.
“If you like it, I can show you how to make it on Saturday.”
“Sounds perfect.” He hands me a bouquet of mixed flowers. “For you.”
My heart swells as I smile at him. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. “Can you set the table while I put these in water?” I ask, deliberately ignoring his compliment as I hand him silverware and glasses to take to the table. Some nights, we eat at the island unit, but most nights, we eat at the table in the kitchen. It has a lovely view over my garden and the ocean in the background.
I place the flowers on the counter before extracting a glass vase from the cupboard and filling it with water.
“About Saturday. I was hoping you might come to the city with me and watch us record. You could bring your sketch pad if you like?” he says as he fixes two place settings.
I carry the vase to the table, placing it in the center as I mull over his offer. I grab our plates next and set one down in front of him.
“No pressure,” he adds, examining my face carefully. “You don’t have to paint the band. It was just an idea.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m equal parts excited and nervous. What if I mess it up?”
