Page 32 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“Don’t be so defensive. To each his own.” Lo smiled and pointed at the mess of lettuce in front of me. “Cut that a little finer.”

“Bossy, bossy,” I grumbled without heat, loving the melodic sound of his laughter.

We worked quietly, side by side, but it wasn’t a soothing form of silence. Not for me anyway. The air crackled with unspoken questions.What was I thinking? Why do I have butterflies?That sort of thing.

Seriously, I was a little dizzy, and my stomach felt wonky. There was nothing wrong with me, other than having a bad case of the stupids. It took a beat for me to recognize the signs for what they were.

I had a fucking crush on this guy.

That was so…weird.

“Do you ever do any cooking?” he asked, pulling me from my reverie.

“No. Never. I don’t usually have time.” I cut the cucumber into thick chunks and held one up. “Is this good?”

“Maybe a tad thinner.” Lo unwrapped a baguette, popped it into the oven, and picked up another knife, chopping the cherry tomatoes into even halves. “I didn’t know you rode a motorcycle.”

“Yeah. It’s the fastest and least conspicuous way to travel around town,” I replied, chomping on a piece of cucumber.

“I bet. What’s it like living the glamorous life?”

“Meh, that’s boring. Tell me about you.”

“Me? There’s nothing to tell. I work, I occasionally hang out with friends…that’s it.” He hip-bumped me and took over chopping the veggies and lettuce. Then he wiped off the board and put it away.

“What do you do for fun?”

Lorenzo’s expression went blank for a moment. He lowered his head as he sidled by me to set the salad bowl on the table. “The bread should be ready. Would you mind cutting it for me?”

“I’m an expert bread cutter,” I bragged. “No problem.”

He used an oven mitt to retrieve the bread from the oven and deposited it on the newly cleaned board. “Here’s the knife. Give it a minute before you—”

“Holy fucking hell!” I snatched my hand away, waving it as if it had caught on fire. Racing to the sink, I ran cold water over my throbbing palm and hopped on one foot, yelping a few times for comedic purposes. It worked. Lorenzo snickered beside me.

“You saw it come out of the oven. Let me see your hand.” He held my wrist as he examined my palm. “You’ll live. Sit down and help yourself to the salad. I’ll bring the soup in a sec.”

I obeyed, thanking him as he slid a bowl of soup in front of me. He moved around the kitchen, setting butter, salt and pepper, wine, and a basket of warm crusty bread on the table till it was nearly overflowing with food and dishes. He fiddled with his cell as he took a seat, and a moment later, a moody RÜFÜS DU SOL tune drifted from the portable speaker next to his red SMEG toaster.

“I like this song.”

Lorenzo smiled. “Me too. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, this is…perfect.”

And it was. A beautiful man, good wine, good food, a relaxed and pretty atmosphere, chill, ambient music. I was the closest to content I’d been in a long time.

“Thanks. It’s nice. Now remember, the soup is hot,” he warned.

“Yeah, yeah.” I blew on a bite of meatball for an obnoxious amount of time and hid my grin when he kicked my shin. “Mm, it’s excellent. I mean…wow.”

“Thank you.”

I spooned up another bite and furrowed my brow. “Hey, you never answered my question earlier.”

“Which was?”

“What do you do for fun?”