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“For now.” She stabs the first miniscule slice of ordinary cheesecake with her fork and raises it to her lips.
“I suppose you did eat half an Italian restaurant.” I shake my head, my gaze still focused on Kayla. I could give a damn about the cowboy on stage. “You never ate this way when we were kids. Did moving to the country change your appetite?”
She sets her fork down. “I always loved food. But my mom was a horrible cook. I wasn’t interested in boiled peas and overcooked chicken.”
“I remember. You would save me the drumsticks and give them to me at school.” And I was mocked for eating the cold leftovers along with the school-provided lunch. Eventually the fear won and I hid the food in my bag, waiting for a safe time to eat.
Kayla dives into her second cheesecake sample, but pauses before lifting her fork. She tears her eyes away from the stage and looks at me. “And now you keep a bowl of candy on your desk because you can eat whatever you want.”
“Granola bars.”
“Same principal. You want what you couldn’t have before. I love good food and exploring different flavors. My mom never cooked that way. And when I moved out, I was always watching my weight.”
I mentally page through the memories of my life with Kayla as if I’m looking through a photo album. She never ordered with abandon until she moved upstate. When she was living in the city, and married to her ex-husband, we’d meet up for dinner and she would select a salad and main course. Of course, most people order that way. But I didn’t realize how much her approach to food changed after her divorce.
“Don’t tell me Mr. Mistake wanted you to diet.”
She turns her attention to the stage again. For a second, I wonder if she heard me. Or maybe she’s ignoring the question, knowing that if she says yes, my desire to hurt her ex-husband will rise up again.
“He didn’t want me to lose my figure,” she says finally, still staring out at the swirling theatrical lights, and the musicians dancing below. “He never told me to diet or exercise, but I had to fit into the clothes he bought.”
“I hate him,” I announce.
“Me too,” she says ruefully. “I promised when I rebuilt my life that I would always be comfortable with who I am. I would follow my dreams and my passions. But my new life doesn’t offer a lot of cheesecake bars, or even dinners out. I live on a budget and cook most of my own meals. If I keep indulging like this, I might need to start exercising.”
“I can take you to my gym.”
“I don’t think so.” She glances over at me. “I’m not crazy about the receptionist.”
“Good point.”
“Although I suppose that depends on how long this lasts. If we’re still battling your ex with Operation Engagement in another week or two, I might have to take you up on the offer or consider cutting back on the take-out.”
In another week or two. My mind fixates on those words. It’s been a matter of days since we launched this scheme, and I can’t picture the end.
“I will order everything on the menu for you if it makes you happy. I think you look amazing just the way you are.” I make a show of stepping back and allowing my gaze to travel down her body. “Not that I can see much with that oversized shirt on. But even if we’re still doing this next month, or hell even next year, I think you should enjoy the cheesecake. I want you to be happy.”
She stares at me for a full minute. The band reaches the end of a ballad. Then the lead singer takes the microphone to introduce that next number. Cheers erupt throughout the stadium beyond our box. But I don’t spare them a glance. I keep my gaze focused on Kayla.
Finally, she turns back to her plate. “You don’t like my I Love Cowboys shirt?”
I let out a laugh. Not exactly the take away I was hoping for from my little speech.
“I’m not exactly a cowboy.” I turn to the stage too, resting my forearms on the counter. “Not like the star of tonight’s show. Do you think he selected those tight jeans? Or was it his stylist?”
She sets her fork beside the remaining pieces of cake and pushes the plate away. Then she steps closer and loops her right arm through my left.
“Oh, I think he picked those out all by himself. Not a fan?”
“I don’t generally judge another man’s pants.”
“Don’t focus on what he’s wearing.” Kayla’s fingers toy with my cufflink as if offering a subtle reminder that I wore one of my thousand-dollar suits to a roomful of people in cowboy hats.
“Just how good he looks in those pants?” I quip.
“Close your eyes.” She abandons my cufflink and rests her hand on mine. I can feel the heat of her body pressed close against my side.
I like having her close.
