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“You don’t want to try the new stuff?” I ask. “Just a regular beer?”
He shrugs with a grin.
“Yeah, I like it regular,” he winks. “In more ways than one.”
OMG, this man is going to be the death of me. Who knew grocery shopping could turn into suggestive dirty talking the way he’s doing? Laughing, we grab some cheese at the deli, stocking up on the Wisconsin brick required for the recipe as well as a couple more types just for fun. Why not? It’ll be exciting to try new cheeses. Then comes the check-out counter before rushing back to the car in a mock-race. This is going to be so much fun, and I can’t believe I get to do these things with my boyfriend.
After we enter the apartment, I stagger to the kitchen island before unloading a bag of groceries.
“Oof, that was heavy,” I sigh.
“Need help?” he asks, his arms full with the rest of the stuff. I merely laugh.
“No, we’re all good now.”
Then I look around. Damon’s apartment is very simple, and very minimalist. He’s kept a consistent theme in all of his rooms, with black chairs and cabinets, brown leather furniture in the living room, and silver appliances. The floors are a gleaming walnut hardwood, and his white walls are bare aside from the occasional family picture and a framed photo of himself graduating from the Police Academy long ago.
If I had my way, I’d definitely add some colorful throw pillows as well as artwork on the walls, but this is fine. It’s a masculine bachelor pad, and that’s how my boyfriend likes it.
Meanwhile, the handsome man must be hungry because takes all of the groceries out in a flash.
“Ready?” he grins.
I look up from the recipe I’m reading.
“Ready, Captain,” I salute, and we both laugh once more. Fortunately, Damon has measuring spoons, measuring cups, and even a stand mixer—everything we’ll need to make this pizza. But while he looks around for a casserole dish, his expression is solemn.
“What is it?” I ask as he pulls out a clear Pyrex tray.
“So,” he says, after a moment, “full disclosure: I tried to make this before, and it didn’t work out so well.”
“Really?” I lean my elbows across the island. “What happened?”
“The crust puffed up until the sauce spilled over the sides of the pan. It burned at the bottom of the oven, filled my apartment with fumes, and my smoke detector went off.” He shakes his head. “It was a complete shit show, and honestly, I still don’t know how I fucked it up.”
I start to giggle, and after a moment, he laughs with me. In my head, the scene that plays out shows Damon running around his apartment with a casserole dish as smoke pours out of his open window. I can almost see him in an apron while flapping his arms, but I don’t think he’d appreciate that.
“Don’t laugh,” he says, pretending to be serious, “that mishap was something I thought I’d take with me to the grave.”
I cover my mouth with my hands. “Sorry Damon, I just couldn’t help myself.”
He crosses his muscular arms over his chest and gives me a stern look. “Fine, missy. I’ll let you off the hook for a kiss.”
“A kiss?” I reply in faux surprise. “That’s too high a price!”
He shakes his head, and shrugs. “Take or leave it, sweetheart.”
“Alright, alright.” I throw up my hands and come around to his side of the counter. “But be gentle with me. I’m a lady after all,” I whisper.
He grins and hauls me up against his chest. “Of course, my lady,” he whispers, his mouth inches away from mine. I get up on my tiptoes, wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down for a liplock. It’s long and slow and nothing like the fiery kisses he gives me when we can’t keep our hands off each other. But his mouth leaves me breathless and wanting more just the same.
Finally, I pull away and smile up at my handsome boyfriend. His blue eyes are like sapphires in the low lighting of his kitchen, and the sight of them puts butterflies in my stomach.
“Alright,” I say, “now I feel ready to start making pizza.”
8
Damon
* * *
As much of a disaster as it was the first time I tried to make this dish, I have total faith in Rachel’s cooking abilities. My girl’s never made me anything from scratch, but the way she sets about pre-measuring the ingredients is very reassuring.
“This recipe calls for a food processor,” she announces, “but actually, all we really need is a fork.”
I nod as if I know this too and rummage around my drawers until I’ve found a long, thin fork.
“Here, honey,” I say. She nods her thanks and then takes the flour, salt, yeast, and sugar and mixes it around with the utensil. When she’s done, she pours the warm water in, and for a while, the mixture just looks like shaggy dough. But then, all of a sudden, it pulls together into a ball. Rachel smiles, dusts the counter with the flour and dumps the dough on top.
