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I’m thinking about all this while I dole out the pasta I normally love onto two plates and try to game out how to eat it as quickly as possible and send Colin on his way.
I notice he’s taken two placemats from the stack on the counter, placed them on my table, and refilled our wineglasses. All we need are some candles and dim lighting, and this will look like a date.
Going to the switch on the wall, I turn the dimmer to make sure it’s as bright as possible in the kitchen. It’s for my benefit, not his. Maybe if the room is lit like an operating room, my body will get the message that this is just a transaction. Food into the mouths of two people. Instead, my body hums like I’m a windup toy and he’s turned my dial. Hard.
I toss some sliced bread into a random basket and throw it on the table. Then I put the two plates of pasta down.
“Hang on, are you forgetting something?” Colin asks, sliding his chair back and going to the sink, where he must have noticed the washed lettuce in a colander when he was helping with the window. “Why don’t you relax and I’ll finish the salad? It’s the least I can do.”
“I—” No words follow because it’s so surprising that he’s pointing me to a chair in my own kitchen and offering to do the work. I haven’t dated much over the past few years because, let’s face it, I mainly only meet Napa locals. I’ve either already dated them or figured out why I don’t want to date them. And at age twenty-six, it doesn’t bother me much that I spend most of my time at work. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t.
So this man standing at my sink, patting lettuce leaves with a paper towel to dry them, is anything but normal.
I’m still standing in frozen surprise next to the table when he turns around and waves at me to take a seat. “I’ve got this. Do you have dressing mixed already?”
“Mixed?” I finally find my voice when I can focus on something other than the sight of his broad shoulders flexing as he tears the lettuce. “If you call buying a bottle of vinaigrette from the store mixing it, then, sure.”
He dries his hands and goes to the fridge. “That’ll work.”
“You probably have a chef working for you who makes dressing from scratch or something,” I mutter, thinking he’ll return my sarcasm with an appreciative eye roll. But his face falls instead.
“Oh my god. Youdohave a chef who mixes your dressing. Of course you do. You could hire a team of shepherds to tend to an olive farm, press fresh oil every day, and bottle it with the blessing of monks.”
I’m just making it worse. He’ll probably be so bored by my lack of billionaire knowledge that he’ll take his pasta dish to go and eat in the cottage. Which is why I don’t expect his low chuckle.
“Why is that funny?”
He shrugs. “It’s a hell of a good image. I think I’ll hire a few monks and have them start blessing things.”
“Now I feel like you’re making fun of me. Or monks.” I still feel chastened for having such a poor idea of what his life must be like.
He pours some dressing on the lettuce, puts the cap on the bottle, and looks around for other ingredients. Spotting a hunk of parmesan cheese on a cutting board next to a grater, he picks it up and dusts the top of the salad with cheese before tossing it.
I make room on our plates for the salad, pushing aside the heap of pasta while he sits.
“This looks amazing,” he says, surveying our plates. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. I’m doing my best not to look directly at him lest he see that I’m sweating. I’m still trying to get a grip, so the last thing I want is for him to know.
His index finger sweeps under my chin, tipping my face to look at him. “Hey, you okay?” Forced to meet his gaze, I see concern in his warm eyes. His mouth turns down, and worry streaks across his forehead in faint lines. It’s the way he seemed the first day I met him, before he beat me at chess.
I don’t like the look of it, so I make my best effort at a half-smile. “Yes. All good.”
He nods, eyes not leaving mine, like he’s assessing whether he believes me. I need him to take his finger away from my face so I can breathe again. At the same time, I want him to touch me in more places.
Shaking some sense back into my head, I pull away from his hand and pick up my fork. “Bon appétit.”
The pasta is perfect, and I let the delicious carbs cure the shitstorm in my head. He’s just a guy. And after tonight, I’ll do my best to avoid him again. Easier that way.
Spearing a couple of noodles, Colin digs into his plate of food. “Mmm, oh my god, this is delicious,” he says before he even swallows the bite. I know I’m a good cook, so hearing praise about the meal shouldn’t feel like such a victory, but his approval warms my skin again.
“Thanks. Does that chef of yours cook Italian food?” I wonder if he eats seven-course meals every night.
He shakes his head. “She cooks whatever she feels like. I’m at work so late most nights, I’m just reheating stuff in a daze and barely tasting it. It’s just sustenance, you know?”
I don’t know. “Do you love your job?”
He looks at the ceiling and considers the question while chewing another large mouthful of pasta. His plate is half-empty, and I’ve only taken two bites. “I used to…It’s complicated. I’ve given everything to it, and I’ve certainly reaped the rewards, but just being here for a few days has shown me how much I’ve sacrificed—my free time, my relationships…”
“Can I ask…what happened with your last relationship? Or do you not want to talk about it?”
