He leans against my island while I pull out a wooden serving board and then begin to grab items out of my fridge and pantry.
“You know it doesn’t usually work. That’s why most men aren’t friends with women.”
I keep my eyes trained on my task at hand while I think about his words. “There are a lot of people who are friends with someone of the opposite sex.”
He laughs. “Like who?”
I stop for a moment to think about it. I can’t think of anyone my age, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. “My parents are friends with many people of the opposite sex.”
His eyebrows turn down at me. “Couples friends don’t count, Eva.”
“Fine. We’re friends.”
His head falls back as a boisterous laugh echoes in my kitchen. “That is theworstexample you could have possibly come up with. We are like the epitome of what not to do.”
“How so?” I stop and place my hand on my hip.
“We both admitted attraction to each other. Being friends—true friends—only works if there’s no sexual tension. We’re a tower of cards, balancing with the hope that no wind hits and knocks us down.”
“What a weird way of putting it. Fine. I can’t think of anyone at the moment.”
His triumphant look annoys me.
“Let’s drop it and go enjoy our movie and snacks.”
Our focus shifts to the counter, where my masterpiece is done.
“Holy shit. You did that while we were talking? Are we having a party?”
“Charcuterie boards are not only for parties. Plus, I love Italian food. It’s my obsession. I’m all for any excuse to have it.”
I grab the board and lead him toward the family room, then place the food down on my wooden coffee table.
“You like Italian food?” He plops down on the couch next to me, his large frame taking up more of the couch than I anticipated. Our bodies are practically touching.
“IloveItalian food,” I reply as I grab a piece of prosciutto and aged Parmesan cheese.
“You’d appreciate dinner at my ma’s house. She’s straight off the boat from Italy and the best cook I’ve ever known.”
I feel my stomach rumbling, just thinking about it. “You are so lucky. Bring me leftovers next time.”
He smiles, and I notice the lines at the corners of his eyes, which show his age. “Really?”
“Of course. In fact, I request leftovers from here on out. Italians are notorious for cooking in large quantities, so I’m sure there will be enough.”
He takes a swig of his beer, and I try not to focus on watching it go down his throat, which is strangely erotic. Is it possible to have a fit neck? I think it is because his seems like the neck of a perfectly sculpted man.
“You’ve got that right. Leftovers are a staple in Ma’s home. Tupperware filled to the brim with leftovers.”
“I look forward to tasting her food,” I reply casually, then lean back on the couch and grab the remote. “What are you in the mood for? Comedy, drama?”
“I’m down for anything.”
I shuffle through the options until I find a comedy that I’ve heard really good things about.
Ninety minutes fly by in what feels like the blink of an eye. As the credits roll down the screen, I scan the coffee table. We demolished the charcuterie board and went through six beers.
The alcohol is making me feel slightly loosened up and buzzed.