I want to say something, but my tongue has fastened itself to the roof of my mouth and my brain cells seem to have slithered out of my ears. He looks so good. Too good, really.
Too good for me.
"I've made you a cocktail. I can't promise it's as good as the Red Devil, but it's along the same lines."
Phew. Maybe with some liquid courage inside of me, I might be able to function like a normal human being. "A cocktail would be awesome," I say, as I finally get my legs to function so that I can walk through the door.
Lex's apartment is amazing. White-tiled floors extend through the entire open-plan space, reflecting the tall windows and state-of-the-art kitchen. The scent of delicious food fills the air, and I glance around, searching out the personal touches that make a home. Along the wall, there are shelves covered in photographs. I drift toward them, smiling at a much younger Dex and Lex with their arms around each other's shoulders and one with a mom and dad too. The twins look like a carbon copy of their father. There are also plenty of photos of them with the other Ink Factor men, at all stages of childhood into adulthood.
"You like photos," Lex asks, handing me a red cocktail in a wide glass with a thin stem.
"Photos are always of special moments. They always feel happy."
"Our best moments," Lex says. "The happiest memories."
"Do your parents live nearby?"
"They do. About thirty minutes away. Far enough that we get to live our own lives, but close enough to have lunch over there at the weekend."
"That sounds perfect."
"Do you want to take a seat while I serve up?"
"Sure."
I follow Lex to the small square dark wood table that is already laid out with silverware and placemats. On the counter, two white square plates sit on what looks like a hot plate. Seriously, this guy isn't just rustling up a home-cooked meal. He has all the gear to make this like a gourmet restaurant experience.
"For starters, we have prawns and scallops with a light lemon drizzle and a fresh herb salad."
"Oh my God, I love scallops, but I'd never be brave enough to cook them at home."
"The trick is to not cook them much at all."
Lex sets the plate in front of me, and I marvel at the gorgeous presentation.
"Dig in."
"There's no digging about it. This is a savor-every-bite kind of experience." I guess this isn't the first time that Lex has cooked up something delicious for someone else, but his expression is still bright when I make a moaning sound of appreciation. "This is so good."
"My dad is a chef. He had his own restaurant while we were growing up, but it got too much for him, so he closed it. Now he works part-time for someone else. He gets to switch off from work when he's not there. Having your own business is a twenty-four-seven commitment."
"Is that how you feel about Ink Factor?"
"At first, but I think personalities lead to different roles being taken on in a group. Carl has shouldered most of the burden of the business side of things. I like going to shows to pick up on the new technology and techniques."
"That sounds fun."
"It can be. Mostly I just like keeping my head down and doing great art for people. I love the customers' response when I've made their idea come to life."
"It's a big responsibility," I say. "It's something they'll most likely have on their skin forever."
"Exactly."
"And what about you? Where are your parents?"
"My family was originally from Austin, but they moved to a small town when I was a teen. I moved here after college and never wanted to go back."
"So you get to see them on the holidays?"
"Yeah. I try. It's not always easy to get time off, especially when I was working at the coffee shop."
"It should be easier now. Just let Carl know when you want to make the trip home."
"Okay, thanks.
Lex carries on talking about the recipes he's learned from his father, using his hands in an animated way that makes him larger than life. He seems really close with his family, which is always a good sign—a good sign when it comes to boyfriend requirements. Not so important for a one-time hook-up, I tell myself.
When we're done eating, he takes my plate and, after five minutes’ more preparation, presents me with a plate of pasta—thin flat linguini curls in a light buttery garlic, herb, and lemon sauce with wilted spinach. The scent of lemon is fresh, and the parmesan adds something wonderful and nutty.
The first twirl of it around my fork is silky and perfect, and the first bite is out of this world. "You know, this is a relatively simple dish, but I'd be capable of messing this up without any assistance."