He smiles at our reflection. The lipstick is off, but his lips are still very red. “You’re kind of weird… you know that?”
I smirk up at him. “I know. And I think that’s why you like me.”
“Perhaps…”
We head back to the kitchen where we share some grapes and wine. I’ve barely had a sip, and I already feel tipsy. Maybe it’s the energy of the evening, or it could just be the fact that I’m hanging with the biggest crush I’ve ever had. And that includes Jordon Silverman in fifth grade.
“I have all the food prepped already, so it won’t take me long at all to cook it up,” he tells me. “You’re going to love it.”
I indulge in another sip of wine. “So you don’t have a personal chef full-time?”
“Oh, no,” he tells me. “I love to cook. I only hire Jerry when I entertain. I can’t handle a crowd, and I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen when I have guests over. But I usually plan out the menu and supervise. I can’t help it.”
“Interesting…” I nod. “So you’re a good cook?”
He reaches out into his fancy gigantic french doored stainless steel refrigerator. “Well, you be the judge.”
“What are we having?”
He grins. “Fish tacos.”
“No way!” I’m flabbergasted because I love fish tacos. It’s quite nice to have someone cook for me for a change. And it’s also nice not to be having macaroni and cheese or spaghetti for once. I usually cater to Christian’s likes, and that leaves me with very limited options. He wouldn’t eat a fish taco to save his life. He loves to catch fish, but he doesn’t like to eat them. We always catch and release.
I watch him do his thing as he fries the fish, as he pulls out a salad and a special sauce, chopped up lettuce and sliced onions, as he chops an avocado for homemade guacamole, and as he fetches the nachos. I offer to help but he won’t hear of it.
“One thing you can do is light the candles on the table,” he tells me. “The lighter is in the top drawer of the sideboard.”
“Oh, sure.” I set down my glass of wine on the counter, and climb down from my stool with much effort. “In the dining room?”
“Yes,” he says, and I make my way to the familiar room, memories of a dozen gorgeous women whirling around in my head. I stand still when I see the table, all decked out for the two of us. There are two place settings by the window, at the corner end of the long table. The sight is very romantic, simple white linens and plates, sparkling silverware and tall wine glasses. There’s a bottle of white wine on the table.
I rummage through the top drawer of the sidetable. It’s a junk drawer, a hodgepodge of various items. Amongst which, I find a lighter. I light the candles, and it transforms the room. It was already romantic, but now it’s a little sexy too.
“Please sit, and make yourself comfortable,” he urges. “Dinner is almost ready.”
“Oh… okay.”
I eagerly do as I’m told and take a seat. It feels weird to be here all by my lonesome. The last time I sat here, I was surrounded by jabbering beauty queens. I pull the linen napkin out of its silver holder, and flatten it on my lap.
I wait impatiently, and study the cool black and white images on the walls, my stomach full of butterflies.
A few minutes later, he shows up with a pitcher of water, wearing a suit jacket over his white t-shirt. He pours us both some water. “I thought I’d clean myself up a little.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He sets the pitcher down on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
He’s quick to return with a salad, followed by tortillas and nachos. He scrambles as he gets the sauce and guacamole and all the toppings, and finally the fish. I’m exhausted just watching him.
“You need a server,” I tease.
He finally settles at the table, a little winded.
“Thank you,” I offer, “for all this. I appreciate the effort.” I really do. I like that it’s just us two tonight, that he has worked hard for this, that he hasn’t just taken me out to a fancy restaurant.
“It’s no big deal,” he tells me. “Like I said, I like to cook and eat in.” He pours us both some wine. “I don’t often venture out. I’m a bit of a recluse.”
“So I’ve heard,” I tease. “I’d be a recluse too if I lived in a home like this.”
