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Scuffing came from inside. When the door opened, the spicy smell that had rimmed the stale odors of the hallway bloomed. Ginger. Soy. Peppers. Music from somewhere inside rode out on the aromas, like the tail on a kite.
“Stir-fry?”
Sean, dressed in jeans and a Nationals T-shirt, held the door open with his back and ushered her inside. “Good guess,” he said, looking a little disappointed that she’d ruined the surprise.
“Smells great.” Delaney looked him up and down, deciding she could add another persona to her list. Along with Gym Sean, Detective Sean and Runner Sean there was now Just Sean, the one who might lie closest to his core. Just a guy in denim and cotton, barefoot, puttering around his kitchen, making stir-fry. “Where can I put these?” Delaney held up the helmet and gloves.
Sean took them from her and set them on a table next to a lamp with a cheap plastic shade. Delaney peeled off her riding jacket, then bent down and stripped her boots, leaving them by the front door before she followed Sean deeper inside. The music grew louder, sounded like jazz. The apartment wasn’t unlike her own, with one large space, the kitchen bleeding into the living room, which held an old tan sofa, a matching love seat, a coffee table and a bookshelf. A giant flat-screen television was mounted on the wall facing the couch. A couple of other doors at the far end probably led to a bedroom and a bath.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Sean eyed her feet, then his own. “I’m not worried about my floors. I just hate shoes.”
“Me, too.” Delaney looked down at the worn hardwood, which had a randomly thrown rug here and there. “Ever since I lived in Hawai‘i, the shoes come off at the door. Unless I’m working in the shop.”
“Fine by me.” Sean spread his arms out. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Delaney tried to orient herself to the decor and the way that things were arranged, but she couldn’t get a solid foothold. Half of the apartment screamed bachelor pad—the giant TV, the keys and wallet tossed carelessly on an end table, the old furniture. But then there was a random sprinkling of homey touches that didn’t quite fit, like pretty blue pot holders hung over the stove, in pristine condition; a shelf of knickknacks on the wall opposite the television, which looked like glass clowns in different poses; and a cross-stitched wall hanging of a Bible verse, peeking from the short amount of wall space between the living room and bedroom door. After a quick thought back to her conversation with Sean over whiskey, Delaney came to a conclusion: Sean’s sister, Mary, had helped him decorate when he first moved in. He’d put up the clowns and the cross-stitch out of respect, in case she visited, or, not really caring, he simply hadn’t bothered to take them down.
There was a sink full of dishes and the remnants of whatever Sean had cooked up for dinner was all over the countertops like a vegetable murder scene: garlic skins and broccoli stems on a wooden cutting board, empty cans overturned in haste, a small blender coated in a dark sauce. On the stove, where Sean had his back to her while he put on his finishing touches, was a covered saucepan which had bubbled white starch down the sides and onto the burners, and a wok that looked brand-new, despite the food inside. Sean gave it all a big stir. “Go ahead and pour whatever you’d like to drink,” he said over the sizzling of the food. “I put a pitcher of water and a bottle of wine on the table.” He pointed in the direction of wherever they were going to dine.
Delaney found the table, tucked in a nook just behind the kitchen and across from the living room. No matter what the rest of the apartment looked like, the sight before her made her exhale softly. Atop a small wooden table Sean had set out dishes that were bright blue, yellow and orange. Polished flatware had been carefully set to the right of one plate and the left of another, atop linen napkins that had been folded in half. There was a wineglass and a water glass for each setting. In the middle of the table, near their plates, was a clear, sweaty pitcher of ice water with lemon slices floating on top and a bottle of rosé with a corkscrew next to it. Right smack in the middle of the table was a frosted mint vase holding a couple dozen pink and green roses. At first, Delaney thought they might be separate flowers, but upon closer inspection she could see that the roses were a soft dogwood green in the center that slowly got pinker until the final outer rim of petals was the color of cotton candy. She stared at the flowers for a moment, suddenly able to catch their sweet aroma, and wondered if there was any way Sean could’ve possibly known that pink and green was her favorite color combination or if this had been a random coincidence.
“Feel free to open the wine.” Sean came around the corner, bearing a bowl of white rice and a much larger bowl of stir-fry. He set both on the table, right in two blank spots that had obviously been reserved for the food.
Delaney grabbed the blush and the corkscrew and filled each glass a third of the way, then filled each water glass to the top. Sean had disappeared back into the kitchen when something furry brushed Delaney’s thighs. She looked down to see an orange-and-black calico cat standing in the chair next to one of the place settings.
“I hope you aren’t allergic.” Sean was back, holding two small spoons. “That’s Callie.”
“Not at all.” Delaney reached out to see if the cat was interested in getting petted. She stretched her neck out and rubbed the side of her mouth across Delaney’s knuckles. Delaney turned her hand over and let it run over Callie’s ears, then her neck. One hand, then two. The petting was gradual. Delaney’s experience with cats had been that “different strokes for different folks” was literal with them. Some liked the rump petted, others their ears, some wanted belly pets if they flopped over and offered it, and others most certainly did not and were only showing you their belly, not inviting touching.
Callie seemed to like it all. She flopped slowly, like a fish, from side to side, showing the light peach fur on her belly as she stretched out her legs.
Sean went to the opposite side of the table, where the place setting had the utensils to the right of the plate, and rested his hand on the back of the chair. “Callie.” Sean spoke sternly to the cat. “Let the lady have a seat.”
In true cat fashion, Callie completely ignored him.
Delaney laughed. She admired a man who was openly into cats, and it was no surprise to her that Sean was one of them. Cats appealed to people who liked a challenge, a mystery to solve, the quiet beneath the storm. Men who used animals as ornaments to proclaim their toughness, such as owning a pit bull just because of the fighting reputation attached, made her skin crawl. Delaney lifted Callie gently from the chair and set her on the floor. The cat arched her back and flicked her tail as she stalked away. “She’s miffed,” Delaney said with a chuckle as she slid into the vacant chair.
“She’ll get over it.” Sean took his own seat and pointed at the food. “It’s tofu, fancy broccoli and some other veggies. I’m not going to lie, it’s my first stir-fry. I hope you like it.”
“It looks great.” Delaney caught the sweet and sour smells of the food and felt her stomach growl. She took a large helping of rice and passed it to Sean. Then she loaded up on stir-fry and went to lift her fork. That’s when she noticed the tiny spoon. Right next to her fork was a dessert spoon with a scoop of peanut butter, done in a fancy swirl. That must’ve been what Sean had carried in after he brought in the meal.
“You said your favorite food was peanut butter,” Sean said sheepishly, when he noticed Delaney had been looking at the spoon for a really long time. “I didn’t know how to incorporate it into the, uh—” he gestured at the stir-fry “—the ‘dish’—” he made air quotes “—so I did that.” He pointed at the spoon. “I saw it on a cooking show. The chef put the dessert into these little spoons. It was some kind of cake, like a single bite of cake with one berry on top, sitting in the spoon. I remember thinking, how stupid. Who eats one bite of cake? But the idea came in handy today.”
Delaney couldn’t take her eyes off the spoon. When she finally looked up, Sean had a nervous smile plastered on his face. “That was really dumb, wasn’t it?” he said. “I thought back and forth on it and, judging by your face, I think I made the wrong choice.”
Delaney wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want Sean to think she was laughingathim. Who would laugh at a guy who went to the trouble to find out what your favorite food was, and, faced with peanut butter, decided to swirl it on fancy dessert spoons? Not to mention that Delaney’s fancy dessert spoon was to the left of her plate, along with her fork and napkin, while Sean’s utensils were in the traditional spot, to the right. Which meant that Sean had noticed, at some point, that Delaney was left-handed, and he’d placed her spoon and fork accordingly. No, she most definitely wasn’t going to laugh at him.
She picked up the spoon and stuck it in her mouth, sucking off all the peanut butter. “Top-notch peanut butter.” Delaney rolled the spoon around in her fingers. “I detect Jif creamy, full-fat peanut butter, from a twenty-eight-ounce jar. No graininess or excessive oiliness, with a bright peanut finish.”
Sean smiled, looking both amused and relieved. “You are correct. Except it’s a forty-ounce jar. I love peanut butter, too.”
“Smart man.”
Sean’s face relaxed, the worry draining away. “You’re not supposed to eat dessert first.”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Delaney gave her spoon one more lick for good measure. “I’m a rebel.”
Sean snorted. “I’ve had a hint or two.” He pointed at her plate. “Try the tofu. I’m dying to know if I did it right.” He scooped some up and tentatively put it in his mouth. Sean’s nose wrinkled as he chewed and swallowed.
