“Once a week, then? Or is twice a week better?”
“Once is fine!” I squeak. “See you next week!”
He recoils with a laugh as he steps into his boxers. “Or in like ten minutes. In the kitchen.”
“Right. Yes.” I recover a skosh of my composure and fall back on humor. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking tohim.”
He glances down at his now-covered man area. “Oh. Right. Well, ifI’min the kitchen,he’sin the kitchen.”
“Yes, but he’ll be minding his manners.”
“He minded his manners just fine this morning!”
I’m at the doorway to my room, halfway through. I look back over my shoulder. “He certainly did.” I knock on the doorframe, not sure whether I want to go inside or turn back around. “Thanks, Vin.”
“You’re welcome.”
I close the door behind me, with the funny feeling that I’ve left something behind in the living room.
Fourteen
After work onTuesday, I finally nail the bean lasagna recipe. (Hint, there’s an inhuman amount of garlic. Garlic covers almost every cooking sin.) I’ve been cooking with unusually fierce verve and when I come to, I’ve got twice the food Vin and I could possibly eat in a week.
“Damn.”
I get an idea, text Lauro, and then text the number he sends me. My phone almost immediately rings in my hand with a callback.
“Esther!” I answer.
“Bean lasagna? Sounds awful. Bring it over. How’d you get my number?”
I’m laughing. “I swear it’s not awful. Lauro has everyone’s number. He’s Mr. Social Skills, apparently.”
“Did he try to kiss you after the art show?”
“What? No.” (I don’t mention the cherry in my drink or the subsequent accidental elbow to his face.) “Why?”
“I’ve known him a long time. He had that I’m-gonna-kiss-somebody-tonight glint in his eye.”
“Well, if he used the glint on somebody, it wasn’t me.”
“Good. You’re married. Or so you say.”
I laugh again. She’s funny over the phone. “Right. And even if I didn’t say, I still would be.”
She hums. “I’m at 103 and Lex. Don’t get excited, it’s not fancy.”
“What time should I come?”
“Before dinner, obviously.”
And so I’m just strapping the extra lasagna into a wide-bottomed tote when Vin gets home from work.
His Mauricio Electrics T-shirt is dusty with drywall, his Yankees cap pushed up loosely—which he does when he’s driving the work van—so it doesn’t block his view. He stands in the open door and it must have been a hell of a workday because I can smell sweat from here. Which, ladies, let me tell you, is not actually a bad thing.
“Hi.” He closes the door behind him.
“Food’s warming in the oven, if you’re hungry.”
