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“Sure.” He takes the shopping bags into the kitchen, and I follow.
“Here.” He hands me a bag of sweet potatoes. “Please wash and peel these.”
I do as he says, sneaking glances his way the entire time. Impossibly, he’s just as sexy when he cooks as he is when he does yoga.
Ugh, what is wrong with me, lusting after him in the kitchen of all places? Have my hormones gone totally haywire?
By the time everything is sizzling on the stove, the delicious aromas make me ravenous for food, which makes it easier to ignore the other kind of hunger.
“Do you want in on my salad?” Art asks. “I season it with fig balsamic vinegar, which is very sweet, and I can throw in some fresh grapes or raisins.”
This again.
I narrow my eyes at him. “When you insist on me eating fruits and vegetables, are you giving me some sort of a hint?”
Art reels back like I’ve slapped him. “I love fruits and veggies and want to share the experience with you. It’s just like the movie lists.” A pot whistles angrily, so he turns the knob on the stove before facing me again. “When I was a kid, fruits and vegetables were scarce outside of the summer season, and even then, they were a rare delicacy for us at the detdom. Some kids even got scurvy. So now that I have unlimited access, I indulge every chance I get.”
Skunk. I’ve again reminded him of the crappy times at the orphanage—and this time, because of my stupid insecurities.
I take a breath. “Okay. If it’s like the movie lists, I’ll have some salad.”
It’s my penance—especially if there’s kale in it.
Turns out, even Art’s salad is delicious… I mean, for a salad. So is the rest of the food. I feel like it’s the best I’ve ever had, though my participation in the prep might have something to do with that.
“You know,” I say when I’m satiated enough to be able to speak. “If investing doesn’t pan out, you could become a chef.”
“Thanks, but cooking for money wouldn’t be as fun.”
I cock my head. “I think getting paid for something you enjoy is the ultimate dream.”
He smiles. “You’re talking about your blog?”
“Maybe.” I clear my throat. “Speaking of that… did you read it, by any chance?”
He smirks. “A little.”
“Did you comment?”
He shakes his head. “Since the target audience is women, I felt like an intruder, and commenting would have made it worse.”
So he’s not SquirrelBoner. I didn’t think so, anyway.
“Speaking of getting paid for things you enjoy doing,” he says. “I liked ballet in the beginning, but when it became my job, something was lost. I think that’s why I got into investing. I want to be financially independent, and to pursue hobbies that aren’t tainted by money. But hey, everyone is different.”
“Yep. I can’t disagree more.”
He smiles. “In a good marriage, you have to learn the art of disagreeing peacefully.”
“You know a lot about marriage,” I say. “Have you been married before?”
Smooth, Lemon. Very smooth.
“I haven’t found the right person.” He levels a sharp gaze at me. “What about you? Did I marry a divorcee?”
The sweet potato I was chewing almost goes down the wrong pipe. “Me, married? I’ve barely even dated.”
He gapes at me. “Barely dated?”
