Crossing the room, Art reaches under his bed and pulls out a folding table and an ironing board. Next, he opens his wardrobe. Inside, it’s organized in a way that would make Marie Kondo, the queen of maximizing small spaces, proud. He’s managed to fit clothing, shoes, a computer, a vacuum, and two stools inside.
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” He pops open the table and ironing board. “This should give us more than enough counter space. The only downside is that we’ll have to make do with my hot plate. I don’t have a stovetop.”
“You make your omelets and waffles on a hot plate?”
“No, they’re made on my waffle iron. But Icanmake them on the hot plate if need be.”
Art removes his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Fire fills my belly as I see his bare arms. We wash our hands in the sink, and he offers me an apron. I’ve dreamt often about seeing him in the kitchen, and now, my dream is finally becoming a reality. I’ll have to try hard to keep myself in check around him.
“If it’s all right with you, I thought we could have a picnic indoors. We’ll make some finger sandwiches, mini quiche, Scotch eggs, pigs in a blanket, sausage rolls, scones, potato salad, and either cookies or custard tarts. What do you think?”
The way Art is moving around the kitchen organizing suppliescould not be more attractive. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying. “Um, could you repeat that?”
He rattles off a gluttony of picnic foods.
“Those sound lovely, but that’s an awful lot of food. Do we have the time to make all that?”
“We wouldn’t if I hadn’t gotten a head start on some of it.” Art chuckles. “I made most of the doughs this morning. Whatever we don’t eat, I’ll save and have for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay, then, where do we start?”
“Well,I obviously would be one of the first contestants voted offThe British Baking Championship. Actually, I doubt they’d even let me into the kitchen,” I joke.
I’ve long since given up being useful. I’m slow and everything I cut ends up being awkward sizes. Instead, I’ve settled for being on cat-sitting duty, keeping the felines out of the kitchen as I watch Art in his element. He moves around with the grace of a prima ballerina. He can be preparing five or six different things at once. I have no idea how he’s able to keep track of exactly what he’s doing. It’s one of the most attractive things I’ve ever seen.
“You aren’t hopeless, Ali. Baking just takes some practice.” I watch as he takes a brush and glazes some type of sauce over the quiche. “I’m just lucky my nan taught me so much.”
“Art, I’m curious, why do you live in a flat with such a tiny kitchen? If it were me, I would’ve wanted a place with at least two ovens and a massive island.”
“I would love to have a place with a large kitchen, but flats like that come with a hefty price tag. When I initially moved to the city, I was on a new hire’s salary and it didn’t go very far, especially since I wanted to live on my own. This flat was the best I could afford.”
“What about after you received your promotion and became my protection officer?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “I probably have enough to move into a much nicer place, but I don’t see the point. This flat is functional and that’sall I need. I’m usually only home long enough to shower, sleep, and tend to Peppermint and Cinnamon.” He sticks the quiches into the oven. “Twelve minutes, then we’ll be able to start our picnic.”
I sniff the air. Everything he’s put together smells divine. “Well, on the nights you’re on duty and staying with me, feel free to cook up a storm in my kitchen once I’m moved into the new flat. If you can make this kitchen work, I can’t wait to see what you’ll do with mine.”
“I can’t wait either.”
“Seeing how much counter space you need here, I think we should have the largest kitchen island possible. And we’ll also need at least two ovens and an industrial-sized refrigerator.” I see Art’s eyes sparkle as I mention all these features. “Like I said, I’ll probably leave the appliance and kitchen-gadget shopping to you, since I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Ali, it would be a dream come true.” He places a towel over his shoulder and snaps his fingers together. “Which reminds me, I should start searching for a proper pet sitter for my little troublemakers. I can’t keep asking my neighbor to watch them when I have overnight duty. Finding the right person might take some time.”
I turn my attention from the cats to Art. He’s eyes are wide and full of worry, like a proper cat daddy. “Why do you need a pet sitter? Just bring them over with you. What if we did up one of the rooms for them on the second floor? They can have their own playroom slash chillout space.”
Ideas and images begin forming in my mind. “We could see about having a custom cat tree made up like the one in Japan. And have shelving for perches at all different heights. Maybe a telly with some birds or squirrels playing. Do you think they’d watch it? If not, maybe an aquarium would be better. Except we’d have to construct it in a way so the cats wouldn’t jump on top of it and knock it over. And Lillian will need a proper introduction to them. She’ll be happy to have some companions. And the garden—I heard about something called a catio.”
“Ali, I can’t do that.”
I place my hands on my hips. “Why not?”
“One, it’s crossing the line to being unprofessional?—”
“Art,” I interrupt. “Any lines between being professional andpersonal went out the door when we agreed to start dating. Look at us now.” I gesture to the flat to prove my point.
He blows out a breath.
