“Are we still doing chicken Marbella?” I ask as I spot the ingredients Cooper has laid out methodically on the counter, everything set at perfect angles.
“It’s been marinating since the morning,” he says. “Just need to get it finished and in the oven. I’ve got some good arugula in the fridge. You want to work on the salad?”
“I want to work on this chicken,” I say, rolling my wrists around so they crack before pulling my hair back into a ponytail, which has Cooper laughing. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s always an apron and an ice-cold deli container of water for me before I get started cooking. You need anything else?”
“I’m great,” I say, grabbing the roasting pan Cooper has set out just as the door to the kitchen swings open and Everett walks in.
“The director!” Cooper says. I can see Everett flinch, just a tiny bit. “What can I help you with?”
“There might be an issue with the firepit,” Everett says. “In that Laurel might be breaking it.”
“That thing is tricky,” Cooper says. He’s just picked up a knife, a loaf of crusty bread on the cutting board in front of him, and eyes Everett.
“Think you could handle this?” he asks. I watch as what I’m sure Everett would like his response to be plays out on his face and have to look down, bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“I think I’m up to the challenge,” Everett finally says, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Cooper grabs the wine for the chicken as he passes me. “I’ll open this for you,” he says, before pushing out the door.
Everett and I work in silence for a minute, but I can feel him glancing up at me every now and then, and I do the same, never able to fully catch his eye.
“Are you having a good time?” he finally asks after a while. I look up from where I’m sprinkling brown sugar over the chicken, but his eyes are on the work in front of him. He seems to be slicing the bread at a much slower clip than is strictly necessary. “Cooking with Cooper,” he clarifies. He says it a little like he’s announcing a show, a segment onGood Morning America.
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. It’s always fun to see how another chef works.”
“Hmm,” Everett says, like this is something he needs to mull over. I watch him for a second, waiting, but it’s not until I look down again that he says anything. “Surprised Laurel thinks he’s your type.”
I set the sugar down, plant my fists on my hips and stare at him. “And why would that be, Everett?” I ask. I’m exasperated, but I’m trying hard not to show it. To follow the rules we established for ourselves on the boat.
Everett sets the point of his knife against the cutting board in front of him and looks up at me, shrugging.
“I just didn’t know you wanted to date another chef,” he says.
“I’ve never said I wouldn’t date another chef,” I say. “Besides,whywouldn’t I date another chef?”
“Hard to coordinate your schedules,” Everett points out.
“Great reason,” I say. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Isn’t he a little... ?” he asks, trailing off.
“What, Everett.”
“Outside the age group in which you’d normally date?”
I snort. “He’s, like, ten years older than us. I’m not exactly grave robbing.”
“Never met a forty-two-year-old named Cooper,” Everett mutters at a decibel that makes it clear he wasn’t trying to hide what he was saying on any level.
“I find that highly unlikely,” I say.
Everett shrugs. “Seems like a young name.”
“Coopers grow up.”
“Still.”
