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"One of the ladies at the foster home I landed in," I shrug. "I got put on kitchen duty a lot because I was one of the older kids.
But I liked it, so I started paying attention and learning."
Ryan nods thoughtfully. "I like that about you," he says. "You're resourceful."
I turn to him, feeling a warmth spread through me. "Thank you," I say softly, feeling like he really sees me. "That means a lot."
We settle into a comfortable silence as I finish up the sauce and start rolling meatballs. Ryan takes over cooking the spaghetti, and we work together seamlessly like we've done this a hundred times before. Tex lies at our feet, looking up at us with soulful eyes, his tail thumping against the floor.
I make sure to give him one of the meatballs before we sit down for dinner ourselves.
He earned the treat since, in a way, the dog brought us together.
Once I'm dishing out the food, Ryan brings the wine to the dining table. I glance up when he doesn't come back, only to find him browsing through a shelf of records. I had noticed the record player when I came here for the first time, but I didn't know if it was usable—and I had somehow missed the shelf.
"How do you feel about Miles Davis?" Ryan asks, his green eyes meeting mine.
"Classic," I say. "I... well, I didn't know you were into records, though I guess I should've assumed from the record player. And jazz?"
"What about jazz?" Ryan snorts.
"I guess I figured you more for a country guy," I blush.
"You would be correct," he says. "You really can't beat some good old Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson. No... I got into jazz when Amanda and I broke up. She left; I needed something to do that didn't remind me of her, so I started frequenting a record store a few blocks away."
I pick up both of our plates to join him at the table. "You keep surprising me, Mr. Wright."
"Speak for yourself," he smiles.
He pours a fresh glass of pinot and sits at the table, each of us in a corner. I can feel Tex by my feet, and I resist the urge to slip him another meatball, knowing that human food can't be good for him.
"So... you’ve been a restaurant manager, a designer, a seamstress, a cook," he says. "Any other jobs I should know about?"
I blush, my cheeks hot with embarrassment as I consider telling him. "Hm... maybe."
He leans forward, his knee knocking against mine slightly. "The way you said that means I have to know."
I take a sip of my wine and lick my lips as I put it down. "I was actually a dancer—only for a little while."
"A dancer...?"
I laugh. "A stripper, Ryan."
His jaw drops, and his eyebrows go up. A meatball falls from his fork and lands in his pasta with a splat. "Oh."
"Do you have a problem with that...?"
"Not at all," he shakes his head. "It just...brought some interesting pictures to mind."
I bite my lip and lean on my elbows, smirking slightly. "What kind of pictures?"
"Pictures that aren't remotely appropriate for the dinner table," he says. "So, I guess you used the pole and everything?"
"That's usually how it goes," I giggle. "I haven't pole danced in a few years, but I bet it would come back fast. Maybe I could show you sometime."
He chokes on his wine, sputtering slightly.
"Too much?" I tease.
