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Reaching for the nozzle attached to the outdoor shower, I rinse him down, including paws and ears. He handles it with as much grace as he can and only whines softly once.
“There we go,” I say finally. “You’re salt water and sand free. But very, very wet.”
I make it two steps away before Ace takes care of the problem himself. He shakes it off like he’s dancing to a Taylor Swift song, water droplets flying every which way. I laugh at his poofed-up fur.
“You look like a marshmallow.”
He looks up at me, tongue lolling out.
“Yes, it’s time for my shower too. Come on, buddy.”
I spend too long in the giant en-suite bathroom, but with each minute beneath the warm water it feels like another worry melts away. My voice echoes against the tiles as I sing, massaging shampoo into my scalp.
My hair is still wet when I walk barefoot to the kitchen. He’d said there was a fully stocked fridge, hadn’t he? I’ve just sized up its contents when Ace’s tail starts wagging against the floor.
Anthony’s changed into a linen button-down, but the black slacks are still in place. The scowl isn’t. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at the food I’ve lined up on the kitchen counter.
“Filming a cooking show?” he asks.
I give him a wide smile. “I’m trying to think of what we want for dinner. I also realized I don’t know what you like to eat. I know you’re not a vegetarian, but that’s pretty much it.” I lift a packet of fresh fettuccini. “Do you like pasta? I make a great pasta carbonara.”
Anthony’s gaze drifts from mine to the packet in my hand. He’s quiet, and I immediately realize my mistake. I reach out and put a hand on his forearm. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you not want to eat dinner together? Perhaps you meant for us to live more like roommates, you know. You do you, and I’ll do me.”
“Summer,” he interrupts, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
Something about the way he says it sends shivers down my spine. “Okay,” I breathe.
“Okay,” he says.
I let my hand drop from his arm. Look through the drawers in search of a knife. I find it and clear my throat, fighting against the pounding of my heart.
“Do you have a cutting board?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m not here often, and when I am I rarely cook.” But he helps me look, strong hands opening cabinet doors and exploring. To my surprise, there are no wineglasses. Nothing but water glasses. Everything stacked neatly.
“Wow,” I say. “Your interior designer really is a neat freak! She would hate to see my cabinets.”
“Yes, she’s something like that.”
There are differently shaped knobs on each cabinet, too, which seems at odd with the streamlined decor.
He helps me find what I need and then stands there, by the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets. Like he’s torn between staying or retreating to the office, lost, unsure of what to do and to say.
So I grab two of the lagers we’d both liked from the beer tasting and nod to the kitchen chair. “Keep me company?”
“Okay.” He cracks open both of our beers and has a seat. Takes a long swig of his. “You know, you were singing while you took your shower earlier.”
I nearly drop the spatula. “I was?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Blushing, I turn back to the stove. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you could hear me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Your voice is lovely.”
