I do my best not to crush Lindy as we fall, cupping my hand around the back of her head and using my other arm to keep my full weight off her.
As our eyes meet, I’m suddenly aware of all the ways our bodies are pressed together, and of how close our mouths are. If I just leaned forward—
“Yep. Definitely about to consummate,” Chevy says, his voice disappearing as he lumbers back down the stairs.
Lindy screams with frustration as I extricate myself and stand, pulling her up with me. The back of her shirt is soaked in her body wash, which is now forming a lake in the tub.
“You’ve got a little something right here,” I say, tugging at her hem.
She cranes her neck to see, then makes a growling sound I shouldn’t find sexy but do. “Will you be my alibi?” she asks.
“I’ll be your everything, darlin’.”
She blinks rapidly at this, her lips parting at my words. Tension cracks like a whip between us.
Then Chevy’s deep voice carries from somewhere on the first floor. “Just kiss him already!”
With that, Lindy is gone, flying down the stairs. I hear Chevy’s laughter fade as the back door slams.
“Lindy!” I call. “Your alibi for what?”
“Murder!”
The door slams again, and I catch my reflection in the mirror, smiling like I don’t remember doing in years. When I glance out the window, I see Lindy closing in on Chevy, the dogs not far behind.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lindy
One of the perks to marrying Pat is the fact that the man can cook. And I don’t mean like mac-n-cheese from a box, cake from a box, or chicken nuggets from a bag in the freezer, which are my household staples. I’m talking FOOD food.
I’d almost forgotten how in college, Pat would don an apron and whip up some amazing meal for the two of us: risotto with goat cheese, grilled steaks and asparagus, or glazed chicken with roasted veggies. My stomach cramps just from the memory of it.
Tonight is the first time since the wedding he’s been able to show off his prowess. And show it off, he is.
Jo and I are seated at the table, watching like this is Kitchen Stadium and Pat is the Iron Chef. She and I are not admiring him in quite the same way though. Jo is impressed because, aside from Big Mo and Mari, she hasn’t had much exposure with actual food preparation. Evidenced by the fact she didn’t know until five minutes ago we owned cutting boards.
Me? I’m watching Pat with an appreciation falling somewhere between the way you eye a delicious steak—what he’s fixing—and a deliciously hot man in an apron. Is it normal for a man to look so good in an apron? Or while chopping vegetables? My stomach rumbles, and I’m not sure what it’s hungrier for—the man or the dinner he’s cooking.
Oh, you’re sure, feral cat purrs. It’s definitely the man.
I don’t even bother mentally arguing with her this time. I’m beginning to concede that it’s a lost cause and I should go ahead and give her a name, slap a collar on her, and let her sleep in my bed.
“What are you doing to the steaks?” Jo asks.
“I’m seasoning them. This is sea salt with dried garlic, cracked black pepper, and a little fresh rosemary. Smell this.”
He leans closer to Jo, which brings him closer to me as well. She smells the sprig of rosemary. I smell Pat.
“Ooh, it’s like Christmas,” Jo says.
It certainly is.
She giggles as Pat tickles her nose with the rosemary. Then he turns back to the stove.
In addition to getting the toilet fixed this week, Pat went grocery shopping. We now own actual seasonings as well as a whole fridge stocked full of fresh foods. I’m still feeling uncomfortable with the expense of it all, but the man is like a freight train. Also, it’s hard to complain about a second toilet and a dinner with actual food groups.
“Now we just need to put the steaks in the oven and—huh.” Pat sets the pan of steaks back on the counter. “I swear I preheated this thing.” He fiddles with the oven controls.
“We used it recently,” I say, trying to think about the last time. “Sort of recently.”
Within a few minutes, it’s clear the oven is not working. Neither is the stovetop, where Pat had planned to sauté vegetables he’s already chopped. My stomach growls again, though it sounds a little more like it’s weeping now.
“We can get a new one tomorrow”—Pat anticipates my glare and shoots me a narrow-eyed gaze which says, try and stop me—“but that doesn’t really help us now.”
“We have a grill!” Jo says excitedly.
Pat holds out his hand and Jo gives him an animated high-five. “Yes! A grill will work. Great idea, sous chef. I’ll just need to adjust a few things. Can you grab me a stick of butter and some foil?”
“On it!” Jo scurries to grab the supplies.
“I’m not sure the grill is in the best shape.” If I haven’t used the oven in a while, I really haven’t used the grill in a long time. Maybe years.
“Is it gas or charcoal?” Pat asks. When I give him a blank stare, he smirks. “Do you turn it on with a button or add charcoal to the bottom?”
“It has buttons,” I say.
“Perfect. Hopefully, you still have propane in the tank. Jojo, help me put these veggies in this foil and then I’m going to add some butter.”
Pat makes a foil basket on the table, and Jo moves the vegetables from the pan into it. He lets her slice the butter and together, they distribute it over the vegetables. Meanwhile, I try to keep my heart from melting into total mush at the sight of them working together across from me. I could be offended Pat hasn’t asked for my help, but honestly, I wouldn’t ask for my help either. I am a happy spectator and will participate fully in the eating portion of the evening.
The three of us head outside, dogs in tow. Pat carries the steaks, Jo holds the foil packet, and I try to take discreet photos of the two of them with my phone. Because: adorable.
With one hand, Pat drags the grill away from the side of the house, where it’s been functioning as ugly yard art. It’s stainless steel, though it’s a bit rusted over in places. More like—it’s rust-colored with a little bit of stainless steel accents.