“Well, I am a poor little rich boy,” he says pointedly, and I wince.
“I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have—”
He waves me away, pushing off the island to navigate around me. “It’s fine. It’s not untrue; I did have a privileged upbringing.”
I catch his arm to stop him, looking him straight in the eye. “No, it’s not fine. It was unkind, and I shouldn’t have said it.”
He blinks at me, something passing between us wordlessly before he drops his gaze to where my hand grips his forearm. When his eyes rise to meet mine again, he nods once. I’m forgiven.
“I’ve been called worse,” he admits. “Today, even.” He wags his eyebrows good-naturedly. “Anyway, you’re not wrong that this place is a bit ‘fancy,’ as you put it, though it’s not really my doing. I hired a design firm that handled everything.”
“I sort of figured.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “I only have so much bandwidth for nonwork stuff, and home decor is definitely not one of those things, so I was happy to outsource it. I think they just decorated it how they imagined a single bachelor would want it? So I’m not offended if you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it!” I insist, and he chuckles. “It’s just a little intimidating compared to the shoebox I live in. But I can work with it.” I mime pushing up my sleeves.
He leans in conspiratorially. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m intimidated by it too.”
“Oh stop it, you are not,” I say with a laugh, then start unloading the sack of groceries that’s set out on the island: a bag of lemons, onions, red potatoes, carrots, olive oil, salt and pepper, plus bunches of fresh rosemary, sage, thyme, and parsley. Gang’s all here!
“I’m serious! It’s not like I’m some Michelin-starred chef. I think the most I’ve done in here is reheat takeout? In fact, I’m pretty sure this is the inaugural run for this oven, which is why I’m so excited to see you do your thing.” He grins, and I feel his pleasure like sunlight, warming my skin.
I think we’re all excited to see what magic’s about to happen here, Jack. “Right. Well, let’s dive in, shall we?” I say brightly, doing my best to project a confidence I don’t feel.
I remember my surprise, the good-luck charm I’m hoping will carry me through tonight’s gambit: a ruffled, cherry-print hostess apron with a sweetheart neckline and edged in red rickrack that I scored at Hamlet’s Vintage, where Nat and I stopped in last night after work. When we spotted it mixed in with a bin of scarves, we both agreed it was an essential ingredient on tonight’s menu. My favorite part: the monogram embroidered on one of the slanted side pockets, LSH, a detail I find utterly endearing. As I loop it over my head, I channel L’s （Lucille, Lettie, Loretta’s?） spirit—and, hopefully, her culinary skills.
I glance over at Jack as I start tying the back straps and his face is priceless—so priceless, in fact, I nearly break right then and there. To hide it, I quickly spin around so I can mask my expression, but he takes the gesture to mean I need his help managing the backward tie.
“Here, let me.”
He comes up behind me and I surrender the waist straps, our hands brushing in the process, and my pulse starts to speed, the temperature in the kitchen rising by a few degrees. He takes his time with it, his fingers grazing my lower back, and when his knuckles sweep higher, skimming my spine, I suck in a breath—a physical reaction that’s impossible to conceal with him standing barely an inch away in this silent kitchen.
His hands stall for the briefest of moments—a short eternity—before resuming and tightening the bow in one final tug, then traveling upward to free my hair from the loop around my neck, his fingers repeatedly stroking my bare skin. When I realize I’m surreptitiously breathing him in, reveling in his intoxicating scent, I quickly spin back around—only to find I’m now facing him from barely an inch away.
His eyes are smoldering blue embers as he stares down at me. “Perfect.”
“Thanks.” It comes out breathy, barely above a whisper. I quickly clear my throat and rock back a step, knocking directly into his space-age refrigerator, and the touch screen on the front panel blinks to life. I half expect the display to read: SHAME.
Oo-kay, let’s reset. I throw open the refrigerator doors and take a deep, cleansing breath, letting the cool air hit my face and chill my over-sensitized skin while I take a moment to reorient myself.
Settle down.
Don’t get sidetracked.
Don’t let him derail you.
I blink a few times, the shrink-wrapped bundle in front of me suddenly coming into focus. Right, the bird. You’re making Engagement Chicken, remember? I wrestle it out of the fridge and over to a cutting board that’s set out on his island, acutely aware of Jack’s eyes on me.
“Let me help you with that,” he says and starts toward me, but I wave him off.
“I’ve got it. You just relax on one of your lumberjack-chic barstools over there and leave it to me.”
He laughs but makes no move to sit, instead standing there and watching me with a lopsided grin. His surveillance is making me nervous, so to busy myself I start inspecting the stainless-steel roasting pan that’s set out on his range like I’m some sort of cookware connoisseur. Mmm, Calphalon. Nice. Of course, I take it a step too far by picking it up and shaking it, like I’m testing its weight.
I catch Jack’s mouth twitching out of the corner of my eye. “Your staring is making me self-conscious,” I warn.
He chuckles again and circles the island. “How about I get us something to drink?” he offers, already opening the door of what looks like a well-stocked wine fridge.
Wine! I could hug him. “Yes!” I practically yell. Anything to take the edge off my awkwardness.
“This okay?” he asks, holding up a bottle of pinot grigio, and when I see it’s my favorite brand—the one I ordered on our double date with Christine and Greg—I blink in surprise.
“Wow, you have a good memory.”
He doesn’t respond, just grins smugly as he works to uncork the bottle, his biceps flexing with the effort.
“Or wait, this is all part of your pickup line thing, right? Paying attention to the details.”
He grins wider as he pours. “Can’t get anything past you.”
“I see what you’re up to.”
He winks, sliding me a glass and holding up his own, and we clink them together. I take a sip, savoring the flavor, then sigh in contentment as it hits my bloodstream. “It’s a nice move,” I concede.
He laughs and sets his glass down. “If you think that one was good, you’re gonna love this . . .”
He pulls his phone from his back pocket and starts tapping, and a few seconds later the opening strains of Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” fill the kitchen, the music wafting down from speakers embedded in the ceiling.
“Wow.” I throw the back of my hand to my forehead, mock-faint. “That was very smooth, Mr. Bradford. I might swoon.”
“I had a little help from Motown radio on Spotify,” he says modestly.