July 14, ? days until I finally take a vacation
I walk into Alex’s house and, with a nudge of my butt, shut the door, smiling at the familiar sight that greets me. Alex at the stove, his faded black Pirates ball cap turned backward, its brim barely restraining curling licks of dark hair. A white undershirt stretched across his shoulders and back, old threadbare jeans, two black apron strings tied low at his waist.
Slipping off my Birkenstocks, I say, “Smells good!”
Alex’s response is a monosyllabic grunt.
Not a good cooking day, then.
Scooting my Birkies toward the wall, out of the way, I breathe in. Fresh-baked bread, butter, lemon, and… thyme, maybe? I’m still learning my herbs. Whatever it is, it sure smells like a good cooking day to me. Then again, my culinary wheelhouse is meals that start in the freezer and end in the microwave, so what do I know?
I try to steady the wobbling tower of books in my arms as I setthem down, but they end up tumbling domino-style across the kitchen table. I sigh, defeated, as I shrug off my messenger bag and set it beside the pile of books. I’ll straighten them out later.
Judging by the grunt, this is not the time to ask Alex if there’s anything edible up for grabs, so I pull the container of leftover SpaghettiOs from my bag and unsnap the lid.
Alex lifts his head and goes still. He’s caught a whiff. The man has a bloodhound’s sniffer.
“Bold move,” he says, “bringing that trash into my kitchen.”
“Bold move,” I tell him, “calling early copies of highly anticipated children’s literature ‘trash’ in the presence of a bookseller.”
That earns me a small shake of his head, a wry smile I can’t see with his back to me, but I feel it all the same. “Not what I was talking about,” he says, “and you know it. Put the trash where it belongs, Ted.”
Gambling, I ask, “Got something better to offer?”
“Working on it,” he mutters, whisking as he adds a pinch of something to the saucepan.
I grab a spoon from the silverware drawer and scrape it around the container. “I don’t know,” I tell him, peering down uneasily at the SpaghettiOs. Lauren was right, darn her. Leftover ’Os are gross. “This is some tasty ‘trash’ I’ve got. I think it’s too tempting to toss.”
“Ted.” He sounds exasperated.
“C’mon, you know you want to taste it.” I lean his way, extending my spoonful, and chant-whisper, “Do it, do it, do it.”
Alex turns, facing me, and our eyes lock. My belly does a swoop.
Hot Chef indeed, Lauren’s voice says in my head. She drives me up the wall when she calls him that, but she’s not wrong.
Blue-flame eyes, hard-work muscles, tan skin tattooed with high-heat burns. Loose curls of coffee-dark hair that he scrapes his fingers through when he’s stressed and tucks inside a ball cap when he’s cooking. Thick brows and lashes, a five-o’clock shadow that shows up at noon. There’s an attractive intensity to Alex’s looks, but even more so there’s an intensity in his gaze when he looks at me that feels like the first time I flicked on the light switch in my apartment and a jolt of electricity barreled through me.
I found an electrician who fixed the light switch. I have yet to find anything that fixes what happens when Alex looks at me.
“Ted,” he says again. I shouldn’t, but I love when he says my name like that. Frustration shot through with fondness.
“Alex.” I smile impishly as he leans in, commanding my heart not to fly in my chest.
He smells like he always does, woodsy spice and lemon kitchen soap. But then I catch a whiff of another kind of spice, the kind I haven’t smelled in nearly two years. My eyes widen. I point with my spoonful of SpaghettiOs, and say, “Nicorette!”
“Yes, Nicorette.” Alex plucks the container and spoon from my hand, then unceremoniously chucks them into the sink.
My smile drops. “What’s going on?”
“Have you checked your email recently?”
“Of course I have. You know how often I check my email.”
He nods, working the Nicorette in his mouth. “Right. Which is why I’m confused.”
“Makes two of us.”