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“Why are you asking my permission? Of course, it’s okay,” I tell him. “Did you eat dinner already?”
He shakes his head, dropping his bag on the counter. It’s his nightly ritual. He comes in, drops the bag, and rolls up his sleeves. And I watch it every day like it’s my own personal peep show.
Again, what the hell is wrong with me?
“There are leftovers,” I croak out and clear my throat.
“You okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” I wave him toward the fridge, breathing a sigh of relief when he stops staring at me like I’m crazy.
“What movie is up tonight?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’ve picked the last several nights. Your turn.”
He chuckles. “I’m going to be focused more on my laptop. Seriously, I’m surprised you haven’t had me watching Letters to Juliet yet.”
“Ooh.” I love that movie. But I never remember it right away unless it’s on or something reminds me of it.
“See? Let’s watch that.”
“You’re sure?” I ask hesitantly.
“I’m sure.” He nods.
Hopping out of my chair, I bound over to him and throw my arms around his neck.
“Anyone ever tell you that you are the bestest best friend ever?”
His arms tighten around me warmly for a moment. But then the microwave dings and he releases me to grab the plate of leftovers. “You tell me all the time.”
“Because you are.”
He shrugs his bag back on his shoulder and I motion for him to follow me so we can start tonight’s cinema experience.
We’re in Tuscany when he sets his plate aside and pulls his glasses from his bag. Firing up his laptop, he looks at me and smiles.
“That was delicious. Thank you.”
One thing I’d learned to do a few years ago was cook food I wanted to eat. This way, I don’t have to go out to dinner all the time and deal with paparazzi. Tonight, I made cheese-stuffed chicken breasts and roasted potatoes.
His compliment has heat filling my cheeks. I’m not a stranger to receiving one. But they’re not usually geared toward what I’ve made, nor are they delivered with Garrett’s genuine appreciation.
“You’re welcome.”
We fall silent again, and I shift my attention back to the movie. We’re almost to the last Lorenzo when I glance back at him to see his head nod toward his laptop. He may not be working seventy hours in the office this week, but I know he’s worked close to sixty, and he still has one more day to go before the weekend.
Pausing the movie, I move closer to him, carefully closing his laptop and setting it aside before I rub his shoulder.
“Garrett?” I whisper, trying to wake him up. “You’re going to get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that.”
“Hmm,” he breathes out.
I lean closer. “Garrett?”
His eyes pop open, magnified behind the lenses of his glasses. The blue-green muted by sleep, but still bright enough that I want to spend time trying to figure out where one color ends and the other begins.
“Ames?” he says in a raspy whisper.
