I feel gratified to get civility from him. “So I hear we’re having stir-fry. Your idea or his?” I tip my head to indicate Rogan, who is standing quietly at my side, watching our interaction. When I glance over at him, I see that it’s now his brow that’s creased with a frown. I smile at him and the wrinkles deepen. What is it with these men?
“Mine,” Kurt replies, shooting Rogan a quick grin as he wheels his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees and takes off toward the kitchen, which is separated only by a raised bar in this open floor plan.
“He’s full of shit. I’m the brains in this operation.”
“No, you’re the legs. I’m perfectly capable of doing everything else,” Kurt calls from in front of the refrigerator. When he turns back around, he’s holding two covered bowls in his lap and boasting a cocky grin that’s one hundred percent Rogan. “My legs are the only things that don’t work right.”
I smile again, sliding my eyes over to my Rogan. “He’s definitely your brother.”
I don’t know what happened to make him frown back there at the door, but his wink assures me that all is right with the world again.
By order of Rogan, I am confined to a chair during dinner preparations. “How can I impress you with my extensive culinary expertise if you help?” he asks.
“You won’t have to worry about that. She’ll be too dazzled by me to give you a second thought,” Kurt says.
“You haven’t dazzled anybody since Regina Lawson in the second grade.”
“You wouldn’t know dazzling if it exploded right beside your head.”
“I’m the definition of dazzling.”
And so the banter goes until the table is set, the wine is poured and dinner is served. Time passes so pleasantly, so humorously, so effortlessly that I can’t quite remember how the conversation turned to Star Wars. I only know that the guys are hilarious as they debate who would’ve made a better Han Solo.
“I have better reflexes, which would make me the better pilot of the Millennium Falcon,” Rogan declares.
“But I’m a better kisser, and where would Han be without Leia?” Kurt argues.
“How the hell could you possibly know that you’re a better kisser?”
“Amy Steadman told me.”
“Amy Steadman? The only reason she kissed you is because you were gettin’ all girly and emotional and shit over that sophomore who broke your heart. What was her name again?”
“You’re a damn liar! Amy kissed me because she was tired of putting up with your cheatin’ ass.”
“I didn’t cheat on her. We weren’t seeing each other when all that happened. Which brings me to my next point. I’d make the best Han Solo because I’m taller. You’d get stuck being Luke.”
“You’re only taller because your legs work. I’m taller sitting down.”
“Bullshit! I’m an inch and three quarters taller than you. Have been since you peaked the year you graduated. Not my fault you stopped growing too early.”
“This is getting us nowhere. Let’s ask our own Leia,” Kurt suggests, turning his slightly less dazzling green eyes to me. “Be honest, who would make the best Han Solo? Kief or me?” Kurt gives me his most winsome smile, winking and nodding and gesturing for me to choose him, all of which makes me laugh.
“You can’t ask me that! You’d both make great Hans.”
“Well, you know the only way to know for sure, don’t you?” Rogan’s brother asks.
Something about his wide grin makes me instantly suspicious. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You’ll have to kiss us both.”
“What?”
Kurt shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”
Open-mouthed, I turn to look at Rogan. “Are you hearing this?”
His face is relaxed and his lips are curved, but there’s a hardness to his eyes that gives me pause. “I’m hearing it. The only thing that’s keeping me from kicking his ass is sympathy. I know how it feels to want to kiss a beautiful makeup artist.”