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I take the dry clothes we pulled from my dresser drawers and closet and start to fill the ones in the guest room. Next, I unload my suitcase, tossing my rumpled dress onto the floor in the closet. There’s no bathroom in the guest room, so I take my bath products to the one across the hall. The first thing I notice is the scent of his soap. It’s familiar and leaves me a little dizzy. Whistling a little tune, I set my pink razor, shampoo and conditioner, and luffa and bodywash beside his expensive brand of bodywash and shampoo. I grab the back and start to read the fine print, instantly pissed off at what I read.
Tossing them in the trash, I head to the kitchen, where I find Samuel at the oven, dishing up the pot pie. “What the hell, Samuel?” I thunder, placing my hands on my hips and tapping my foot on the gleaming tile floor.
“What?” he startles, spinning around and holding a plate. It’s also when I notice he’s wearing an apron. Sure it says “Kiss the Chef,” but it’s an apron, for heaven’s sake.
“What are you wearing?”
“An apron,” he replies, glancing down in question. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason, Martha.”
“Martha?”
“Stewart.”
Samuel rolls his eyes and turns back to the task at hand. When he has both plates dished up, he takes them to the table, where he’s already set two glasses of ice water. “Are you just going to tease me about my apron, or did you have something important to discuss?” he asks, untying the black and white apron and hanging it from a hook beside the refrigerator.
“Oh, I have something very serious to discuss, but why are you wearing an apron? You know you’re thirty-six, right, and not eighty?”
Samuel sighs as I take a seat and place my napkin on my lap. “I wear it to protect my clothes from food splatters. This may sound completely foreign and too refined for you, but there’s a whole demographic of people who like protecting their clothes,” he says.
The moment the words leave his mouth, I drop a forkful of food down my shirt, so I bring the material up to my mouth and suck the vegetables off.
“See what I mean?” he mumbles, taking his fork and a much smaller bite of his dinner.
I moan in pure divine pleasure as I take a huge bite of food. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is amazing.”
“It is good,” he confirms. “What is it you were worked up about?”
“Oh! Yeah, I threw out your animal tested body products.” I shovel a big bite of flaky crusty pot pie, letting another moan fly as I chew.
“You what? Why would you do that?”
“Did you not hear me? They test that brand on animals.”
“But…” he starts, setting his fork down and rubbing his forehead, “that’s my shampoo and soap. What the hell am I supposed to use now?”
I shrug. “Use mine.”
“Use yours?”
I glance across the table. “Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Yes, use mine. It’s all natural, made from shea butter and tea tree oil.”
He pulls a face. “Doesn’t that smell nasty?”
“It has traces of it. You can’t even smell it.”
He just shakes his head and continues eating his food, mumbling about changing his shampoo. He remains silent as I tell him all about my schedule for tomorrow, including one Reiki session and two massages. I’m not working at the lingerie shop until Wednesday, so I’ll be able to get a lot of laundry done tomorrow, which is good because I’m not sure I have any clean panties.
“You’re headed back to work?” I ask as I gather up my dirty plate, grabbing his as I walk by.
“Sure, I was done,” he protests, but doesn’t come after his plate. I knew he was done. He’d been just picking at a few crumbs while I finished my meal. “And yes, I’m back to work tomorrow.”
“Lots of dead bodies awaiting, I’m sure.”
He just lifts a shoulder. “It’s what I do.”
Filling the sink to wash the dishes, I turn his way. “I think your job is kinda cool.”
