Page 119 of Levi

“You’re a good cook,” he says. “Does your offer still stand to make that dish for me you cooked for your family in Miami?”

I reach over and ruffle the thick hair at the back of his neck. “Anytime. How long will you be in town?”

“At least till the Bash’s over.” He mops up the last of the yolk with a corner of bread. “I headline the next two Saturday nights.”

“I know,” I say. “I was at the first one.”

The bread stops halfway to his mouth. “You were not.”

“Yes, I was. Benji found a fringe jacket in his closet and wore it. He dressed me out of the back of my own closet and told me we needed to blend.”

He puts the bread down, and I watch him arrive at what is apparently the most urgent question. “What did you wear?”

“That’s what you want to know? What I wore?”

“That’s the first thing I want to know. Answer it.”

“Jeans and a white shirt. Benji dug the jeans out of—”

“The jeans. The broken-in ones. One pair in the closet of linen.”

“How do you know what’s in the bottom of my closet?”

“I was a prisoner in this apartment. I inventoried everything you own. Including your spices.” There’s not one ounce of shame anywhere on him. Then he tips his head back. “I stood in that closet holding those jeans, trying to picture you off-duty in them, and decided it wasn’t good for me to dwell on it. And the one night you put them on, you’re standing in a dark field behind thousands of people while I sing at the lights.” He levels a look at me across the eggs. “Will you wear them again? For me?”

“That depends.” I take my time with it. “How important is it to you?”

“Very.”

“Then I will. If you make it worth my while.”

“How do I do that?”

“For starters, you take them off me afterwards. You can figure out the rest on your own.”

The flush starts at his collarbone and climbs his neck, and he drops his eyes to his plate, fighting a grin he can’t hold down and losing. He picks up the café con leche just to have somewhere to hide.

I reach over and put my hand on his arm. “You okay with me flirting with you?” I ask, serious.

He sets the cup down and takes a while with it, thumb going around the rim.

“People have flirted at Lee my whole life,” he says. “Fields of them. Screaming it.” He looks up, and the flush is still there, but he holds my eyes. “Nobody’s ever flirted with me. Over eggs. At a table. I don’t know how to act or where to put my hands.”

I lean closer and kiss him below his ear. “Here’s a tip. You can put your hands anywhere you want.”

“Damn, Dante. You’re killing me here.”

He ducks his head and the grin finally gets loose.

“Why’d you go, though? To my concert?” It comes out quieter, and I let him change the subject. “You weren’t speaking to me.”

“To prove to myself I could stand in a field with your name all over it and feel nothing.” I drink my coffee. “You want to know how well that went?”

“No.” His eyes come up. “Yes. Maybe. Tell me what you thought.”

He performs for a living and he’s bracing like this is a review that can hurt him. I give him the truth.

“You were flawless. I mean that. Every note dead center, every mark hit, thousands of people getting exactly what they drove hours for. You’re an amazing performer. I had no idea, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”