“I don’t know how to sing. You play those horrible songs in my car so much they’re all stuck in my head.”
“I wish I’d recorded it,” I swooned.
“I bet. Considering it will never happen again.” He snorted.
“I will jump in that cold pool if I can hear you sing again,” I promised.
“Hm.” Grayson pretended to think about it. “No deal.”
I set the blender on the counter. Before I could pick up the heavy stockpot, Grayson was there, lifting it up.
“You want all of it in the blender?” he asked me.
“Yes, please.”
I scooped out the last of the cooked-down tomatoes and spices into the blender and let it whirr. Then Grayson poured it back in the pot for me.
As I stirred in the heavy cream, Grayson was already pulling out an unopened jar of mayonnaise from the fridge and spreading a little on the bread.
“Someone taught this man how to make a grilled cheese.” I applauded.
Grayson smirked at me over his shoulder.
“Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t always rich. There was a time in my life where I had to cook my own food. But I didn’t make soup or grilled cheese as nice as this. It does not seem like Florida food,” he observed as he layered the slices of fancy cheese onto the bread.
“I used to work at one of the Disney dining experiences,” I told him as the grilled cheese sizzled in the panini press. Grayson, of course, one, had the room for a specialty kitchen appliance, and two, could afford said appliance. “We provided comfort foods with an upscale casual twist.”
“It’s like living in a Florida commercial with you,” he teased as he scooped the grilled cheese onto a plate while I dished up the soup.
“I just need to bring my alligator and exotic plant collection to give you the full Florida experience.”
“You don’t have an alligator, do you?” His expression was apprehensive.
“No, Gizzy is best as an only child.” I took a bite of the grilled cheese.
“Yum.” I closed my eyes. “Fancy cheese and fancy bread. Look at you eating the food in your fridge.” I poked him in the abs.
Grayson grunted and carried the food to the kitchen table.
“No judgment here,” I told him, trotting after him. “I’m saving it all for your empty penthouse. Now.” I whipped out my notepad and gel pen. “Let’s figure out your style so you can decorate. Do we like the Scandinavian look? Or maybe more industrial, though we’ll need some plants to soften things up so it doesn’t look like a renovated prison.”
“No plants,” Grayson said, hunched over his soup.
“No plants! But you get so much light here. There’s nothing but sunlight.”
Grayson had a dark look on his face.
“You can’t hate plants,” I argued. “Plants are low emotional maintenance.”
“I had a plant once, and it died. I killed it.” He said it so plaintively.
I squeaked out a laugh then clapped a hand over my mouth.
You shouldn’t laugh at people if they were baring their soul, but it was hard not to.
“Everyone kills plants,” I assured Grayson “Three of mine died last week, gosh darned succulents.”
“I don’t want to kill my plants, and since I clearly can’t take care of them, I shouldn’t have plants,” he said mulishly.
