It makes sense that Eamon would not only want his bar well stocked, but also his own. I wonder if he entertains often. Am I just one of many? Not sure how I feel about this realization.
“Enjoy your little soirée."
Holy hell, now everyone knows Eamon is hosting me. He rushes to the elevator, sliding a card much like the attendant, and disappears behind the closing doors.
“In here!”
I round the corner to find Eamon in the kitchen, with what I can only assume is his entire collection of pots and pans, littering the pristine, marble island.
“Wow!” He proclaims. “You look magnificent.” Stepping toward me, he opens his arms in greeting.
This is new. The hug is almost awkward, we are trying to decide between facing each other fully or a quick side squeeze. In the end it was a mishmosh of both, but he quickly remediates by leaning in and kissing my cheek.
He’s dressed smartly. Crisp white shirt, slightly rolled up sleeves, showing off just his wrists, and black slacks that are tailored so dangerously perfectly; it should be a sin.
Eamon returns to rummaging around the kitchen, pulling out various ingredients from the fridge.
I find myself appreciating his backside for probably longer than I should have.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted steak or pasta, so I picked up all the ingredients. I can make both, if you’d prefer.”
I fight back a laugh, trying to be polite with my response. “Both?”
He nods. “So, what will it be?”
I tap my finger on my chin as I consider. “Well… I never say no to pasta.”
He smiles, revealing an adorable cheek dimple; I never noticed prior. “Of course. Pasta it is!”
I take that as my cue to take a seat at the island to watch the man work his magic.
A faucet above the stove pours into a large stainless-steel pot, as Eamon washes ripened tomatoes at the sink. When the pot is nearly full, he turns the lever, then proceeds to dice the red fruit atop a wooden board. It’s like watching a cooking show, but with a painfully handsome chef.
“You must be quite the chef in a kitchen like this,” I remark, as I scan the massive room that’s probably the size of our entire apartment. The place is brimming with state-of-the-artappliances, including gadgets I’m not even sure I know how to use.
“Actually, I’m not much of a cook. I usually eat on the go.”
His response astonishes me, seeing how incredible the kitchen is. “You’re kidding, with a space like this… I could be the next Martha Stewart!”
The newly discovered cheek dimple deepens. “Yes, I know… shocking!” He jeers, looking up at me briefly ahead of returning to his chopping. The next words come out with an unusual level voice. “The last person I was with liked to cook. We were always in the kitchen together. Frankly, this room has sat untouched for quite some time.”
I watch on as he absently scrapes the tomatoes into a shiny sauce pot and pushes them around. He hasn’t wanted to be in his own kitchen since his last relationship? How long ago was that? Eamon seems as though he's drifting away with past memories.
I try to pivot the conversation. “Well, I bet you could run circles around Martha,” I remark matter-of-factly.
His smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but I’m hoping it’s moving things in the right direction. Eamon punctures a package of premade Italian meatballs, instantly making me eat my words. Premade? Oh man, he really wasn’t kidding about the wholenot cooking thing. It’s like a crime against Italians!
In a skillet, he works to brown the abominable meatballs while forming a thick sauce with olive oil, tomatoes, and a little water. While he cooks, I inquire about his other business, the Bay Boxing Club.
Eamon explains how his grandparents acquired the failing gym and how they planned to expand their successes to other parts of the New England area. Unfortunately, they never grew past Boston. When he took over the family business, it was his efforts alone which made the gym more profitable than ever. I knew his family was visiting, but what I didn’t know was thatit was more for business than pleasure. Eamon would like to expand someday, but any conversations of growth have been frozen, until an outstanding issue has been resolved. Whatever that means. He seems to have a good head for business, although as I learn more, it’s apparent he’d rather spend his resources and energy at the boxing club than the bar.
Will he ultimately close the bar once the issue is resolved? I might need that backup job sooner than later. What I still can’t wrap my head around is how either of these businesses would merit someone “owing a debt.” Who would have such a deficit that Eamon would have to send his goons to collect? Obviously, I don’t pry on the subject. At some point during the conversation, he invites me to come by the club sometime for abeginner’s boxing class. My mind wanders to Brodi, recalling how he too enjoyed recreational boxing. Would it be rude to ask Eamon about past Bay Boxing members?
Sure, Cindel… let’s see if your last boyfriend went to my club. Okay, okay. I drag myself back from the impulsive thought, as this seems like the wrong time and place, to be thinking about my absent ex.
Abandoning the food, he pours himself a finger of whiskey, adding a perfectly clear sphere of ice in the center. “I remember you saying that you don’t drink… otherwise, I’d offer you one,” he explains.
Now he finally remembers? “Actually, I’ve had a bit of a reawakening. I’m going to try to make some changes, starting by not making promises to myself that hold little merit.”
