Page 31 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

Lorenzo chuckled. “That’s true.”

“Can I help?”

“Do you know how to make a salad?”

I cracked my knuckles and made a production of rolling up my sleeves. “Dude. I am hands down the world’s best salad maker. Ever.”

Lorenzo raised a brow. “Here you go…lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, pepitas, avocado. Do you like those ingredients? Wait, before I attempt to feed you, are there any allergies I should know about? I don’t want to accidentally poison you and end up on the news.”

“Everything sounds good, and no allergies,” I declared, picking up the cucumber and smacking it on my palm.

“No playing with the cucumber, sicko. Here’s a bowl. Knock yourself out.”

I studied the lettuce and frowned. Tear or cut? Cut…probably. I reached for the knife he’d left on the cutting board and tried to decide where to start chopping—middle or end?

“Am I supposed to wash this first?”

“I did that already. But you do need to wash your hands.”

Right. I obeyed and spent more time than necessary drying them methodically as I peeked over his shoulder to watch him stir meatballs into broth.

“Smells good,” I commented.

Lorenzo quirked his lips in amusement. “You don’t know how to make a salad, do you?”

“Uh…I just haven’t done it in a while and the last time I did, I opened a bag and called it a day.”

“You can’t fail at this. Just chop everything and throw it into the bowl.” He squeezed my elbow and winked. “I believe in you, Pierce.”

I released a beleaguered sigh. “All right. Here goes nothin’.”

“So…did you happen to see the photo of us with the hunky firefighters on social media?” he asked as if to break an impending silence.

“No. Is it good?”

“Of you? Yes. I’m not sure how I got in the shot. Or how I ended up being called your assistant,” he huffed with mock annoyance.

My grin split my face in half. “Really? You work for me now? I like the sound of that.”

Lorenzo rolled his eyes. “I bet. My friends were freaking out. Don’t worry. I assured them it was the product of a weird confluence of coincidence.”

I let out a low whistle. “Confluence of coincidence. I’m gonna have to look that up. Um…I hate to ask, but do your friends know I’m here?”

He laughed. “No fucking way. First of all, I wasn’t sure you’d show up. Second, they wouldn’t believe me, and third…no offense, but…you’re not my type.”

I gasped and gestured behind me. “I’m gonna need help pulling that dagger from my back. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing at all. Your straight quotient is a tad high, though.”

I snorted. “I’m not straight.”

“No, but you probably like classic rock and have a thing for fast cars.”

“Well, yeah. So?”

“That’s…nice.”

I snickered. “By nice you mean…yuck. Right?”