Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I rounded the corner at the end of the hall and paused to admire the view. He was in my kitchen, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that fit his muscular body like a second skin. The kitchen window was open, and as he whipped something in a bowl, he shook his hips and hummed along to the Celia Cruz song drifting in from one of the other apartments.
I grinned and leaned against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest as I watched him. I’d had a hard time imagining him in my shabby apartment when I’d invited him over. He was just so elegant and sophisticated, the kind of man you could easily picture on a yacht, or running a meeting in a board room. Yet somehow, he looked like he was right at home.
For the first time, I let myself imagine a future with him, one with countless mornings just like this one. But it was way too soon to think about stuff like that, so I pushed those thoughts aside and went to join him.
As soon as he spotted me, Tory’s face lit up with a glorious smile. He put down the whisk and the mixing bowl and grabbed my hand, pulling me to him as he said, “Dance with me, Arie.”
We both tried to lead and burst out laughing as we bounced off of each other. I said, “Follow me,” and showed him the few salsa steps I knew. He picked up on it right away, and we danced around my little kitchen like we were at the hottest nightclub in town.
When the song ended and something slower came on, we let go of each other and smiled self-consciously. Then Tory gestured at my crowded countertop and told me, “I’m making us breakfast. I hope you don’t mind. I had some groceries delivered, because I didn’t want to use your stuff without permission. And I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I’m making… well, pretty much everything I could think of. Whatever we don’t eat will keep, though. I probably made enough for you to have breakfast for a week.”
As he poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me, I told him, “I feel like I’ve been transported to a fancy café. What did you make?”
Tory pointed to the various dishes as he explained, “There’s a frittata Florentine with spinach and cheese, some fresh fruit, a few pastries from the market, and a dish I learned to make when I lived in Spain. It’s called tortilla Española, and it’s made of eggs, potatoes, and onions. I also mixed the batter for some ricotta pancakes, to go with the orange marmalade on the stovetop. Why don’t you make yourself a plate and have a seat while I finish this last dish?”
I served myself a little of everything and took a seat at the kitchen table, positioning my chair sideways so I could watch him cook. “Thank you for doing all of this,” I said. “I feel bad, though. You’re my guest, and I seem to remember promising to make you brunch.”
“This is fun. I enjoy cooking, but it’s much better if it’s not just for me.” He brought the basket of pastries over and put it on the table before bending to kiss my forehead. “Besides, you’re planning to make dinner for us, so it’s only fair that I make breakfast.”
I tried a bite of both of the egg dishes, which were incredible. He seemed pleased when I told him that, and then I murmured, mostly to myself, “I wonder if my customers would be willing to try these if I offered them as specials at the diner.” When he chuckled, I asked, “Why is that funny?”
“You said the same thing last weekend, when we were eating something from room service. It’s like part of you is always working. And that’s not a criticism, just an observation.”
“You’re right. I bought the diner right around the time my son moved to San Francisco, and I guess it became my whole world. I love it, especially my customers and the people I work with. But I know I need to get a life, and I’m trying. That’s why I’m here with you this morning, instead of at work.”
He smiled at me and said, “I’m glad I can bring you some balance.”
We lingered over breakfast, all of which was absolutely delicious. Then, after he helped me pack up the leftovers, the two of us stood side-by-side at the sink and washed the dishes. It was such a simple thing, but it felt good. He seemed to think so, too. I loved how relaxed and comfortable he was, both with me, and in my home.
It was just really nice to share this task like this with someone, after entirely too much time spent alone. I tried to remember the last time I’d had a guest in my apartment, aside from my son and his husband, but I drew a blank.