I mean, of course I did.
He answered with his eyebrows raised. “She lives.”
“Yeah, sorry, long day.”
“You didn’t swim this morning.”
“Didyouswim this morning?” He hadn’t been back since that one morning he’d joined me.
He paused. “No. I just… sometimes notice when you are.” Another pause. “I mean that in the least stalkerish way possible.”
I grinned. “You got anything to eat? I missed dinner. And lunch.”
“In fact, I do. Jack and Maiv and I went into town, and I got some groceries. I heard you like Cheetos.”
“Oh my God, I love them. Though I should probably try to go beg something more substantial from the kitchen staff, assuming they’re still there. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I burned a lot of energy today.”
“I also picked up some of the famous Kuhn family cheese spread.”
“Did you love it?”
“Eh.”
“Oh come on. You loved it.”
“I did, but I’m not keen on being the kind of person who loves a product labeled ‘cold pack cheese food.’ What does that even mean?”
“Cold Pack Cheese Food should be the name of your next band.”
He smirked. “The problem is I ate all the crackers. Wait. I’m having a flash of inspiration.” He made jazz hands. “I have somebread—and this hot plate.” He plugged in the single-burner stove and bent down and rummaged through a cupboard and emerged with a beat-up frying pan. “Cold pack cheese food grilled cheese sandwich? With a side of Cheetos?”
I cracked up. “Sounds perfect. How come you have a loaf of bread? Seems random.”
“I’ve been oversleeping breakfast—when I’m not noticing you swim in the least stalkerish way possible—so I usually just make toast.” He made a face. “I may be doing better on the participation front, but I’m still not a morning person.” He moved to the minifridge. “You want classic cheddar, port wine, or herb and garlic?”
“Wow, you really went all in on the cheese spread. I don’t know what to pick!”
“I’m getting another brain wave. We’ll make finger sandwiches. Little fancy sandwiches. Then we don’t have to choose.”
“Brilliant.” I made my way over to him. “You want to cut the bread first or make the sandwiches whole and then cut them?”
He hip-checked me. “Shoo. I’ll do this.”
“I can help.”
“Nah, you sit. I got this. You want some bourbon?”
“Sure.”
He herded me to the little table and gave me a drink. “You probably aren’t going to believe this, but I am an expert at grilled cheese.”
“I believe it. Grilled cheese is classic poor-people food. Filling and cheap.”
“Exactly. A brick of Velveeta, a loaf of Wonder bread, a tub of margarine, and you’ve got a week’s worth of dinners.” He was spreading cheese on bread as he spoke. “Though today youget your sandwiches fried in real butter, because that’s what I put on my toast these days.”
“Fancy.” I sipped my bourbon and watched him work. He was shirtless, wearing only shorts and the orange rubber clogs. He had an unselfconscious ease in his body that was compelling. It interested my inner choreographer.
Oh, who was I kidding? It interested my inner horndog.
