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Dane unpacks the groceries in the kitchen. His shoulders are tense, his movements abrupt.
“This is a nice house,” I venture. “How long have you lived here?”
He tears open a package of thick steaks. “Ten years or so.”
“The homes in this whole neighborhood look historic.”
He gives a humorless laugh and turns on the back patio light. “They’re old and run-down. This one was built in the 1930s. It needs more upgrading than I can afford.”
“But the bones and construction are solid.” I knock on the door leading to the dining room. “A lot of modern houses don’t have this kind of craftsmanship.”
He grunts a noise that could be assent or derision, then goes out to the patio and flicks on the outdoor lights. A few lawn chairs and a large grill are arranged on a narrow wooden deck. After firing up the grill, he returns to the kitchen.
“Can I help?” I ask.
He shakes his head, pointing with his chin to a chair near the butcher block. “Sit down. What’d you want to drink?”
“I’ll get something later.”
I watch as he prepares the food. Though he’s irritated at having been coerced into this, he moves with the confidence of a professional chef—peeling, chopping, slicing, seasoning.
Not only does he know what he’s doing, but he clearly has a natural facility and love for cooking. Soon, incredible smells fill the kitchen, and the steaks are sizzling on the grill.
“Not saying I agree with his tactics,” I remark as Dane checks on the steaks, “but I’m beginning to understand why Benny asked you to cook for him.”
Dane scowls. He’d tied a bandanna around his forehead that makes him look incredibly sexy in a pirate-like way, and his face is reddened from the heat of the grill. His arm muscles bulge as he flips the steaks.
I’m getting hungry for more than just food, but before long, he serves up a mouthwatering meal of juicy porterhouse steaks basted in garlic butter, plus plentiful sides of grilled vegetables and corn, roasted potatoes, and soft, flaky rolls.
Benny overloads his plate, helps himself to another beer, and returns to the living room to eat in front of the TV. Dane pulls out a chair for me at the narrow table by the window and uncorks a bottle of Malbec.
“You’re pretty impressive, Chef Armstrong,” I remark as he puts two plates on the table and sits across from me. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as such a pro in the kitchen.”
“I’m not.” He pours me a glass of wine and opens a beer for himself. “I just like food.”
“I like to eat, but cook…not so much.” I pop a bite of steak in my mouth and groan aloud. “Oh my god, this is amazing. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Self-taught, I guess.” He cuts into his steak. “My sister and I did a lot of cooking growing up.”
“You have a sister?”
“I did. She died about a year ago. Cancer.”
“Oh, Dane.” Sorrow for him cracks through my heart. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs like it’s in the past, but his eyes darken with pain. “Nicole was five years older than me. Our mother left when we were really young. She’d met another guy and divorced my dad, so he raised us. He worked over in a factory on the east side—long hours, hard work. We never had much money. But when he was home, the three of us always ate together. My dad made dinner as often as he could—simple things like spaghetti or meatloaf.”
He nudges the platter of corn toward me in invitation. “When Nicole and I got older, we took over dinner prep so our dad didn’t have to worry about it. Best part of the day—being in our tiny kitchen, chopping and slicing, all the anticipation of the final dish. Then eating together when our dad got home.”
Slicing off another piece of steak, he takes a bite and continues, “If he worked late, we’d save a plate for him. When I heard him unlock the front door, I’d go downstairs to sit at the table so he didn’t have to eat alone. He wasn’t much of a talker—neither was I—but I just liked sitting there with him. Cooking and eating together made us all feel good.”
He stops as if realizing just how much he’s revealing. I didn’t think it was possible to love him more, but the thought of him as a boy, cooking and eating with his father and sister, makes my heart swell to unimaginable proportions.
“That’s really nice,” I say gently. “It’s no wonder you still love cooking.”
“He died when I was fourteen.” Dane frowns and pokes a potato with his fork. “That’s when I went off the rails. Nicole was in college by then, and I went to live with a relative. Got myself into a shitload of trouble, dropped out of school, ended up in juvie and then jail. The whole works. If it weren’t for the judge who got me started on bounty hunting, I’d probably still be in prison.”
“What did Nicole think of the work?” I ask.
