Concern clouds Jamie’s face. “Should you be working out on that ankle?”
I attempt a shrug, but all it does is knock me off-balance. I catch myself, but Jamie stops mid-row, hooking the handle back on the machine before coming toward me. I let myself sprawl into a distinctly un-yoga-like pose. He squats down beside the mat, his elbows braced against his thighs. It’s such a familiar pose it unlocks something in me, longing for a time when we were always this comfortable with each other. Reaching toward my ankle, he pauses, meeting my eyes. “May I?”
My pulse flutters against my throat, and instantly the memory of our flirty exchange from last night rushes back through my entire body. Not trusting myself to use words, I nod. Jamie gently presses his thumbs along the thin skin of my ankle. It is a little swollen, but it’s been improving every day. “I should have taken you to the medic.”
I clear my throat. “They wouldn’t have done anything other than ice it. I just need a few days.”
He reaches down to help me up but lets go of my hand as soon as he’s sure I’m steady on my feet. For a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other, a swarm of unanswered questions filling the space between us. Then my stomach lets out the most obnoxious growl.
Jamie chuckles. “Hungry?”
“Maybe just a little,” I admit.
“I have an idea.” He grabs my yoga mat and wipes it down, returning it to the wall. “Come with me.” He starts walking toward the gym door.
“But wait, what about your workout?” The Jamie I knew was always a man of routine.
But he just shrugs. “It can wait.”
He takes my hand again, and something about the strength with which he grips it makes me feel like maybe he never wanted to drop it in the first place. We leave the gym and pad through the empty resort.
Jamie leads me past the concierge desk and around a large potted palm tree to an inconspicuous hallway toward an even more inconspicuous set of doors.
“Jamie!” I whisper-shout. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Jamie’s hand is warm in mine as he pushes through the doors. We’ve left the artfully curated halls of the hotel behind as we step into a dimly lit industrial kitchen.
“So, what are you in the mood for?” He plucks a fresh white towel from a stack and flings it over his shoulder. “You can have anything that doesn’t involve the fryer.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. “I—you…” I start, before finally landing on, “I’m sorry—what?”
Jamie smirks at my disbelief. “I have my ways,” he says enigmatically. Then he adds, a little more sheepish this time, “We should hurry, though; I bet the staff arrives soon to get brunch set up.”
I burst out laughing, deciding I don’t want to know how Jamie managed to gain access to the resort kitchen, instead preferring just to stay in this warm and cozy bubble where real-life things like logic don’t apply.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Who’s this new-and-improved Jamie? First you jump off a snorkel boat into the open ocean, then you forgo your sacred gym routine, now you’retrespassing.”
“Maybe you rubbed off on me.” The look he gives me sends something sparkling through me from my face to my toes. “Anyway,” he says, “what can I make you?”
“Surprise me.”
Jamie narrows his eyes, studying me, then nods his head as if deciding something. He reaches for a skillet and slides it onto the stovetop. The burner beneath ignites with a soft whoosh. Then he disappears into a walk-in fridge, and I hop up onto the stainless-steel counter beside the stovetop. It’s cool beneath my thighs. There are rustling noises for a few moments, and Jamieemerges with a carton of eggs, jugs of milk and cream, butter, and a couple of apples. He dumps the haul of food on the counter beside me.
Jamie is an incredibly competent person in general, but he especially shines in the kitchen. I remember watching him prepare an entire Friendsgiving dinner on a trip we took to Tahoe. It was the first trip we ever went on together, though back then, I wasn’t sure if my crush was requited. By the end of the trip, however, Jamie had finally made his feelings known. My toes still curl remembering our first time together in the little twin bedroom of his friend’s lake house. But leading up to that, I spent most of that weekend happy to just be in the same room with him as he diced potatoes and rubbed thyme leaves off the stem between his thumb and fingers. I was mesmerized then, as I am now, by the precision of his knife work—and by the sight of his sleeves pushed up, his lean forearms exposed. Jamie slices the apple into wedges and then into smaller cubes.
“Can you hand me those mixing bowls?”
“Let me help,” I say, hopping off the counter. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay. Slowly mix in the wet ingredients with these dry ones. Can you handle it?”
“Yes, chef.” I don’t mean it to sound suggestive, but I guess it kind of does because Jamie’s face turns red. I clear my throat. “So, remind me again why you never pursued being a professional cook?”
“That was just a fantasy,” he says, turning back to the ingredients. “I guess I wanted to be a cook in the way some kids want to be professional athletes. It was never a realistic thing.” In a separate bowl, he whips cream until it’s stiff.
I think about what he said last night at the tiki bar—about wishing he’d followed his instincts more. “Maybe being realistic is overrated,” I say softly. “You shouldn’t have to give up your childhood fantasies.”
