Page 24 of Back for Seconds

I guess his ex had also made off with their table. Typical.

I recognized the kitchen right away—the sleek slate-gray cabinets, the big white granite-topped island. The low moody lighting. Outside the cabin was quaint and cute, but the inside? It was downright dreamy.

“Tonight, we’re dining omakase style,” Joey announced, heading straight to the sink to wash his hands.

“What does that mean?” I slid into one of the bar stools around the big gleaming island, swinging my socked feet.

Joey uncorked the wine and began a very generous pour. “Small plates, made to order.”

I quirked a brow, trying to remain cool and collected in the face of behavior that aligned so aggressively with everything I loved. Food, wine, cozy decor, kindness. Not to mention the satisfying heat of his attention, warming my insides. Had he really done all of this for me?

“So you’re just gonna, what? Stare at me while I eat?”

He placed the wine glass down in front of me, alongside a bowl of green olives tossed in oil and fragrant freshly chopped parsley. “Kinda.” Then he grabbed an olive and tossed it back into his mouth.

“I hate that. Please just sit next to me like a red-blooded American.” I sipped my wine. It was tart, bright perfection. “Or what if we sit at opposite ends of a really long table? I’ll wear a sweater vest, and you can look miserable.”

“Sorry.” He smirked, turning back to the stove. The oven light was on, and he bowed to steal a look through the oven window. Whatever was baking in there was the source of the extremely familiar, semisweet, buttery smell that had reached me outside. “The whole meal’s already planned. We’ll have to cosplay Mad Men another night.”

“Rats.” I speared an olive with my fork and popped it into my mouth, the tender flesh bursting with flavor between my teeth. I pressed my fingertips to my lips, actually stifling a moan. I stole another. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Joey kept his back to me, absorbed by whatever task he had at hand. Perfect.

“You don’t really feel like you have to prove anything to me, right? Because I can fully recognize how mean my video was—I shouldn’t have laughed at you. I take responsibility for that. And you know what? I shouldn’t have yelled at Sneaker Peter, or whatever the fuck his name is, either. It’s just—ok, yeah, I tend to get caught up in being right. But I can admit when I’m wrong! I shouldn’t have gotten in his face—”

Joey glanced back at me. “June?”

“It was unladylike, which is kind of a problematic thing to say. But even I can cop to the necessity of being polite—”

“June!”

I startled out of my ramble. Joey was fixing me with a look of wide-eyed amusement.

“Yeah?”

He leaned forward onto the island, pressing his forearms into the cold countertop, bowing his head so his eyes were level with mine. We were still quite far away from each other, but being the single focus of that look, a wave of warmth traveled up my chest, across my neck. “I know.” His voice was a low velvet hum in the back of his throat, like the zing of olive oil. “I know you’re a good person. I know you’re…” He paused, his tongue tracing the curve of his bottom lip as he pulled in a breath. “You’re like me.”

“Like you?” I said, quietly.

“You’re going through some shit right now.”

I nodded mutely. Ripped my gaze away from his. Refocused on the stem of my wine glass. “I’m not good at hiding anything.”

“Good. Why would you want to be?” Joey knocked his knuckles against the counter then pushed back, standing to his full height. “First course…” He turned back to the oven and slid a baking tray out onto the stove top with a clatter. “Fresh baked focaccia topped with sea salt and paired with muhammara—not homemade. Bought from the actual and literal best Lebanese eatery in all of South Jersey.”

Chapter 10 Joey

Her body language changed immediately. All the anxiety, all the trepidation melted off her and her features lit up. Fuck, was she cute.

“Zaitunay Grill?” She leaned forward, dropping her chin into her hand, red nails standing out like cherries in the snow against her cheek.

“Obviously,” I said, barely holding back a proud smirk as I plated a triangle of focaccia, still hot to the touch. June was leaning over the island, trying to catch a glimpse around my elbow.

“Patience, JB.” I tossed a look over my shoulder at her, and she quickly brought her shoulders to her ears in a look of total innocence, sinking back into her chair.

“Sorry, jeez. I fucking love that place, but Brian never wanted to go there because he has a weak Irish stomach.”

I tucked my lips around my teeth. “Am I…allowed to laugh at that?”