“Your grandmother taught you?”
“Yeah, we spent a lot of time together in the kitchen whenever she visited.” He grabbed the next clove, pressed, peeled. The rhythm was automatic, one of the few things that quieted his brain instead of revving it. “My parents had a private chef growing up, so cooking wasn’t exactly encouraged. But my dad’s mom was happy to teach me when I asked. My mother took the whole thing as a personal attack.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t need the chef anymore. And if I didn’t need the chef, that was one less thing she was providing, and Carmen Vargas can not handle being unnecessary.” He flattened another clove. “So I kept doing it.”
“Out of spite.”
“Best motivator there is.”
Dawson’s mouth pulled at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close, and Leo loved seeing him relax.
Leo squeezed lime juice into a bowl and started dicing the mango, the knife moving in quick, even cuts. He could feelDawson watching. Not staring. But there was a quality to his attention that Leo had learned to recognize, a stillness that settled over him when something held his focus. Leo had seen it at the tractor pull when Dawson worked over the engine of Justin’s rig. He’d seen it at Maria’s when Dawson listened without rushing to fill the pause.
Now it was aimed at Leo’s hands on the cutting board, and the back of Leo’s neck went warm.
“You can have a beer,” Leo said without turning around. “They’re yours.”
Dawson took the hint and grabbed two bottles out of the carton. He set one next to Leo, opting to lean against the counter rather than sit back down. The close proximity was distracting enough Leo nearly took off the tip of this finger.
“Thanks.”
Dawson drank and watched Leo work.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Leo said.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter. You’re watching me like I’m going to burn the place down.” Leo wanted Dawson to open up to him. They’d been texting back and forth non-stop since the night of the meat raffle, but every interaction left Leo feeling more confused. This felt like more than friends, but Dawson gave zero indication on where he wanted things between them to go.
“Just watching.” Dawson took a pull of his beer. “You’re good at this.”
“I’m good at a lot of things.”
“There he is.” Dawson shook his head, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. “Was wondering how long you’d last before the ego showed up.”
Leo grinned. Most people either bought the cockiness or got annoyed by it. Something in Dawson’s voice made it sound like he found it endearing, and that did something to Leo he wasn’t ready to look at.
“Chicken’s got twenty minutes,” Leo said. His voice came out lower than he’d intended. “I need to check the rice in ten.”
“Okay.”
“You could sit back down.”
“I could.”
Dawson didn’t sit back down. Leo dried his fingers on the dish towel and turned, leaning against the counter opposite from him.
“Season started last week,” Dawson said. He picked at the label on his bottle, not making eye contact. Leo’s chest felt heavy and his head swam, trying to figure out where Dawson was going with this shift in the conversation.
“I know. I was there.”
“That probably means you’re going to be out of town a lot, right?”
“Three road games in the next two weeks. Duluth, then Grand Rapids, back-to-back.” Leo folded the towel and hung it back on the handle. “Why?”
Dawson shrugged. Leo didn’t like the visible tension in his posture. He wanted to reach across the distance and hook afinger under Dawson’s chin, forcing him to make eye contact. But that flash of insecurity also gave Leo hope.
