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The last thing I need is Beckham in my space, but really, it will make this go faster.

“Yeah, you can wash the potatoes for me while I cut the veggies.”

“Don’t you need to clean the veggies too?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah, good point. You do that while I get the chicken on a pan to take out to the grill. In fact, I’ll go check on the grill, and you can start washing. Make sure you get all the black spots off the potatoes. No one wants to eat dirt.”

“Huh, is that what those black spots are? I didn’t realize that,” he mocks.

“Ha-ha, funny guy. I’ll be right back,” I say, walking toward the sliding door that leads to the porch.

Archie is standing by the grill and texting on his phone when I walk outside.

“Hey, Arch. Do we have enough propane?”

“We have enough propane, and I started it for you. Should be getting pretty warm by now. Is the food ready?”

“Not yet. I need to cut up the veggies and potatoes, but I can get the chicken on while I do that.” I lift up the grill hood and feel the heat immediately. “Yeah, I think this is ready. Thanks, Arch.”

“Anytime, sugar. Thanks for making dinner. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in, like, two hours,” he says, rubbing his stomach, which makes his shirt ride up, exposing his six-pack—or maybe eight-pack.

I haven’t seen him shirtless yet, but I’m sure he’s solid, like the other guys.

I pat him on the shoulder. “It’s coming, big guy. I’ll be back out in a few with the chicken. I don’t expect you to man the grill though. I might be a girl, but I can handle some heat.”

“I just bet you can, Little King,” he says, laughing.

I shoot him a wink over my shoulder when I walk back into the house. Beck is standing at the sink, washing the potatoes, and the veggies are sitting on the cutting board.

“Wow, you work fast. Thank you.”

He just nods while he scrubs a stubborn dirt spot on one of the potatoes.

“Oh, hey, I need a bowl to put these veggies in with some olive oil and seasoning. Where are the mixing bowls? Oh, and I need a pan to put the chicken on. I didn’t see one when I was looking for the cutting board.”

Wordlessly, he leans down, reaches in front of my leg, and opens the cabinet.

“It’s in this one. I think we have a few different sizes. If you don’t see one that works, I’ll see where the popcorn bucket is. The pans—if you’re talking about, like, a cookie sheet—are in the drawer under the oven. Like where your mom keeps hers,” he says and then turns back to the sink to keep washing.

I bend down to peek inside the cabinet and find a medium-sized bowl I can mix the veggies in and a larger bowl for the potatoes. Pulling both out, I set them next to the cutting board. Then I go around to his other side, where the oven is, bend down, and pull out one of the larger cookie sheets. I found the foil in the pantry last week when I made meatloaf for the guys, so I walk over, open the door, and grab it.

Setting the pan on the counter, I start to roll out some foil and place it on top of the pan, then open the drawer in front of me to get a fork.

“We’re running out of room on the counter here,” I say with a slight laugh.

“Am I in the way?” he says with a teasing tone as he leans toward me.

Okay, if he wants to invade my space, I’ll invade his right back. Two can play this little game he seems to be starting.

Pressing into him so our arms are now touching, I say, “I’m sure we can make it work.”

His chest rises, and his lips part. I watch as his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip.

I gently nudge him with my hip. “Just don’t put your hand in my way, or you might get cut.”

His body stiffens. I glance over at him, and he’s got an odd expression on his face.

Then he glances down at his hand and flexes it a few times.