It doesn't mean anything.
I brush my hair and put it back in a casual bun, roll my shoulders, and head down the hall. Because if I keep thinking about this, I'll start auditing every decision I've made in the last year and I’m not equipped for that tonight.
I don't know what I was expecting as I walk into the kitchen. Maybe a bunch of to-go containers, with one plate and a sad lone fork. A fridge full of four kinds of beer and no actual food besides condiments.
Instead, I’m greeted with a fully functioning workspace—open and warm from the oven, butcher-block counters worn soft at the edges, a deep farmhouse sink with a window over it that looks out at the last of the sun. Lots of pots and pans hang ona wrought iron rail. There’s a spice rack with bottles that seem used, and even a basil plant on the sill that’s thriving.
And there's Beck.
He's at the stove with his back half-turned, flipping what I believe is pita bread, as the flames char it. His weight is cocked off the bad ankle. His hat's gone, leaving his dark hair sticking up around his head as if he ran a hand through it a couple of times, then called it a day.
"Where’d you learn to cook?" I ask, walking in, then leaning on a barstool at the island.
He glances over and the grin is instantaneous, like it was loaded and waiting. "Self-taught. Craft services and fast-food for shows got old fast. I started making meals ahead of time, if I could. Or I just cooked when I had free moments."
I nod, impressed. “What are you making?”
He tosses a charred pita on a plate next to him. "In the oven I have one-pot Mediterranean chicken and rice. I had some chicken already marinating in the fridge."
“Never expected a stunt-rider to make Mediterranean food. Awfully fancy.”
“I have many talents.” He turns and winks, then puts the plate of pita bread on the countertop of the island.
I shake my head.The man doesn’t stop, does he.
"The main dish will take another ten minutes. Have some bread and homemade hummus." He gestures to a bowl of dip and hands me a small plate.
He keeps surprising me.
I spoon some hummus on the dish and grab some pita. I tear a more manageable piece then dip it in, aware of him watching me the whole time. I take a bite and…wow…the pita is warm and the hummus creamy. It’s delicious.
“Um, this is really good. Like better than in most restaurants.”
His smile gets super wide. “Yeah?” I swear there’s even a bit of pink on his cheeks.
“You may have to wrestle it out of my hand, if you want any.”
“You can eat as much as you want, but I’d wrestle with you any day.” There’s that flirty grin again.
This time my smile gets out before I can snatch it back.
Dammit.
"You didn't have to dress up, either," he adds, eyes traveling up and down my body.
I shrug. "I thought a clean shirt would be appropriate for dinner."
“Then I'm honored, Ms. Dempsey.”
I roll my eyes as he washes up some of the dishes he’s already used.
Suddenly, he turns and snaps his fingers. “Shit. I have some tzatziki I made this morning.” He pulls it out of the fridge and grabs a serving spoon.
As he plops it in the bowl and turns back around, he pivots awkwardly on the busted ankle. His knee buckles at the weight and his hand goes for the counter to hold on. But when the bowl hits the counter, the spoon flips up, sending yogurt sauce all over him, the island, and the floor.
And he’s still trying to catch his balance.
I'm there in a second, a hand around his arm, steadying him.
