Page 51 of Black and Brown

His pasta was ready and the seafood perfectly seared.

The last step when he plated it was to top it off with some grated parmesan and chopped chives.

He made his homemade dressing for the simple tossed green salad chilling in the refrigerator crisper.

He jumped back into the shower to freshen up, and forty-five minutes later, he was leaning against the window with a cognac in his hand, waiting for the sound of the elevator opening on their floor.

Please don’t let me look like a goddamn fool.

He didn’t know who he was begging… The first-date gods, he guessed.

By the time his anxiety began to get the better of him, he heard the locks releasing to Mirage’s apartment.

Grace opened his door.

“Hey, you ready?”

Grace leaned against his door, staring at Mirage’s lips before his gaze traveled down the length of his body.

Mirage stared, waiting several minutes before he said, “Grace. What is it you want me to do?”

“Come inside.”

Mirage blinked. “Did you say, ‘come inside’? As in your apartment?”

Grace nodded.

“What about dinner…? It’s pasta night.”

Grace glared.

“Fine. I’ll come inside.”

Mirage

Mirage didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he decided to play along. Not to mention, he’d always wanted to be invited inside Grace’s apartment.

Grace stepped to the side and pushed the door open wider. “Watch the tracers.”

Mirage shook his head. Of course he has those.

Once he was past the foyer, he first noticed the sensual music and welcoming glow of warm lighting.

Mirage took a quick survey of the dark, romantic ambiance that made him want to stay awhile.

The condo had an open floor plan with oversized leather furniture and woodgrain paneling.

Still standing at the entrance, he glanced back at a silent Grace, who motioned with his arm for him to keep walking to what he assumed was the kitchen.

Mirage rounded the corner, and his bottom lip almost hit the floor as the aroma of something delicious slapped him in the face.

Grace’s elegant living room was nothing compared to his fancy-ass kitchen.

Unlike his own basic shit, Grace had gleaming stainless-steel appliances, marble countertops, and over two dozen small jars of herbs and spices on glass-encased shelves, which were probably in alphabetical order.

Grace’s stoic demeanor faltered watching Mirage take in the fancy setup before he schooled his features.

There were pots on the stove and serving dishes—the expensive kind—that indicated to Mirage this was not takeout.