“That would be perfect. I love having someone to talk to while I cook. It’s a chardonnay, is that okay?” he asks while opening the wine.
“That would be great. I love chardonnay,” I say, since it sounds like the perfect balm for my wretched day. “Isn’t it hard having alcohol around? Sorry if that’s intrusive, I’m just curious.”
“In the beginning? There was no way I could have handled it. I’m ten years sober now, so I’ve gotten comfortable with it. Sometimes, watching other people drink too much completely reinforces my reasons for quitting. Besides, a friend of mine sent this to me as a housewarming gift.”
He reaches for a wine glass and then pours me a generous serving. I don’t protest. Not tonight.
“You’ll have to let me know if it’s any good. He and his wife started their own vineyard down in Texas, just outside of Austin. We played together in Vegas. He’s a terrific winger, but I have no idea if he can make wine or not.” He chuckles as he hands me a glass and then grabs himself some ice water.
“Well, it smells delicious, so that bodes well.” I taste it, and I’m delighted by the crisp, fruity flavor. “Oh, this is fantastic. I like it. You’ll have to give me the vineyard’s name so I can order some for myself.”
“I absolutely will. My friend will be thrilled.” He sounds pleased by my appreciation of his friend’s wine. Having a man concerned about what I like is new. It feels… really, really nice.
I observe him as he prepares dinner. Sleeves of his white button-down rolled up, muscular forearms on display as he chops a red bell pepper to add to the salad. Such capable precision in his movements. A competent man is so attractive. He’s impressively at home in the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time a man cooked for me, at least one who wasn’t married to one of my friends. It feels decadent and comforting at the same time.
We discuss hockey and the latest scouting prospects that David Jones has sent us. The conversation flows so effortlessly, and before I know it, he’s plating an elegant dinner of sea scallops, pasta, and a crisp, green salad.
“This looks delicious. Michelin star worthy,” I praise.
“Wait ’til you taste it.” So confident, but not arrogant. God, that’s a nice change of pace for me.
He pulls out my chair and gets me seated at the table before bringing over our plates. I wait to dig in until he’s also seated. It’s the least I can do since he made dinner. He raises his water glass for a toast, and I do the same.
“Congratulations to us. We made it through today, and it was one hell of a day!”
“Isn’t that the truth?” I click my glass in agreement before taking another sip of my tasty wine. It’s delicious. “So, how did you learn to cook like this?”
“One of my first roommates was a chef. He essentially taught me how to cook so he wouldn’t have to do it at home. I don’t cook as often as I’d like to anymore, but it’s always nicer to have someone to cook for.” His genuine smile makes my heart happy. I watch him swirl some pasta on his plate before spearing a sea scallop at the end of his fork.
“That’s handy, to have a roommate like that,” I say before swirling my fork full of pasta.
The first bite is an exquisite explosion of garlic and butter. I moan in appreciation. The scallops are sweet and perfectly cooked, with a lovely caramelized crust. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until I smelled thefood. Now, I can’t get it in my mouth fast enough. This is heavenly. I’m finishing my last bite when I notice we haven’t said a word during dinner; we’ve been singularly focused on eating.
He looks at me as he’s taking his final bite, and his eyebrow lifts in query.
“Well, clearly, we were hungry,” I say, grinning as I look at our empty plates. “That was so amazing, I didn’t even want to talk.”
He wipes his lips with a napkin before giving me a flirty smile. “I’m so glad you liked it. You’ll have to let me do it again. Soon.”
“Oh, I’ll happily let you cook for me. After raising kids for years, the last thing I want to do lately is cook.”
“Didn’t you have a home chef? I mean, the Robertsons strike me as pretentious like that,” he says, giving me a curious look.
“Oh, they very much were. When Kurt was alive, definitely, but the kids and I lived a much more subdued lifestyle after he died. I’m not a big fan of live-in staff, and I wanted my kids to have as normal a life as possible.”
He looks at me like I’ve surprised him. I get it, but it wasn’t the money for me. I wanted to raise my kids, not have someone else do it for me. I didn’t want to miss a moment of them growing up, regardless of how well off we were financially. I was adamantly against them ending up anything like their father and his rich, entitled friends.
“I think that’s commendable, Jos. Not every person in your financial position thinks like that, but somehow, that’s so very you. You care so much about the people around you, and I admire that. I’m not always that good about being considerate.”
I can hear the sincerity in his voice, and it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. It’s so wonderful to be appreciated. He gets up to grab the wine and top off my glass before I even have a chance to ask for more.
“You’re more considerate than you think, Damon. Today’s a perfect example of that.” I say, as I gesture towards my dinner plate. He ducks his head, but I see the corner of his lips turn up.
“This is my last glass. I need to get going soon,” I say wistfully.
He looks a bit disappointed but recovers quickly. “Why don’t we watch a movie? We can relax and let the effect of the wine wear off.”
“That sounds perfect. What have you got?” And it does. It’s been ages since I’ve just sat and watched a movie.
