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He pulls me close. “You look like you just imagined me naked.”
“It’s the vegetables. Made me think about your eggplant.”
A shift in his hips and he presses against me. “You don’t need to just think about it.”
“Aren’t you hungry?’
He maintains eye contact as he reaches for his wine, taking a long mouthful. After he swallows, he simply says, “Yes.”
“Then let’s eat.”
“Oh. You meant dinner.”
“Is that how this is going to be all night, Will? You’ll make sexual innuendos about everything?”
“Yes. Got a problem with that?”
“No. It’s just–I think we need to work on some expectations management for this evening, Will.”
He bursts out laughing at my use of his own words against him.
I pull back. His grip tightens.
“Where are you going?”
“The chicken needs me more than you do.”
“That’s debatable.” A sweet kiss on my forehead comes before he lets me go, the ukulele music winding down and going quiet.
Five minutes later, we’ve removed our respective aprons and we’re sitting at my four-person table, two seats empty–thank goodness. Tonight is about us and only us, the dinner a perfectly decent performance on my part, Will making appreciative sounds of gustatory happiness.
“The herb tray really adds to this,” he says, the compliment hitting home in a way that surprises me.
“Thanks.”
“I have to confess, I’ve never had a date invite me to her apartment and cook me dinner. I wasn’t sure how this would go.”
“Hold on there, bud. We haven’t made it to dessert yet. Don’t call this a success before we hit the finish line.”
“Dessert isn’t the finish line tonight, Mallory.”
I fill my mouth with wine and savor it, mulling over his words as my pulse races to settle between my legs.
He stands and holds out his hand, grasping the edge of my empty plate. “Finished?”
I choke a little, a dribble of wine tickling my throat. “Hmmm?”
“Finished? With dinner? You cooked, so I’ll clean up.” He grabs his Wonder Woman costume–I mean, apron–and gets to work.
Openly gawking, I watch as he clears the table, putting dirty dishes in the sink, setting serving dishes on the counter. Opening my lower cabinets, he looks around and says, “Where do you keep containers for leftovers?”
Have I died and gone to heaven?
“You don’t have to do that!” I insist, pushing my chair back, abandoning my wine.
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Kitchen skills can’t be faked. This is a guy who is comfortable in his own skin, and who knows that pulling your own weight is part of being an adult.
I sit back down.
