Four Fun (Four)

“You should be able to get home tomorrow,” Devin says, “depending on how the roads are.”

“In the meantime, we have a guest bedroom that’s all yours,” Khalil says.

I appreciate that he’s offering me my own room and dropping what we started earlier. Though I think we would have had an amazing night together if we hadn’t been interrupted, it’s better that nothing happened. There are plenty of other men around — particularly with summer coming — so I’m labeling these four as “do not touch.”

“In the meantime, what’s for dinner?” Shane asks.

“We didn’t even get any food at the stadium before they shut it all down,” Devin explains to Khalil.

“We should’ve hit a drive-through on the way home.” Shane shoots a look at the tallest man, whose name I don’t know.

“I told you I’d cook,” says the tall man, who’s been mostly quiet. “Give me half an hour.”

“Want me to help?” Shane asks, though it’s clear from his tone that he’d rather do anything else.

“I’ll help,” I say, interrupting. “You’re putting me up for the night. It’s the least I can do.”

9

Most awkward dinner party ever

“I’m Becca, by the way. You may have caught my name while your friend was yelling at me.”

“I’m Marcos.” The brief nod he gives me draws my attention to his thick head of disheveled hair. I don’t know if he styled it to look that way or if it’s a result of the windstorm, but with his prominent nose and bone structure, it looks good on him.

“Want me to help too?” Khalil asks. Devin and Shane have already left the kitchen.

“No need,” Marcos says. He appears to be a man of very few words.

Khalil lays a hand on my arm and lowers his voice. “Are you okay, Becca?”

“Aside from being stuck here, I’m okay.”

“It’ll be fine. I won’t let Shane bother you.” He holds my gaze, his eyes sympathetic and smiling. “I need to go out and make sure nothing’s loose that can blow into the pool,” he says. “I’ll be back.”

They have a pool too? Though I don’t know why that should surprise me.

I nod and give him another smile, which he seems to have been waiting for before he leaves me.

I watch him go, feeling another pang of regret about the night’s turn of events when I see how his backside looks in his jeans.

“What are we making?” I ask, turning to Marcos, purposely brightening my tone. May as well make the best of things.

He’s arranging pots and pans on the stovetop. “Mac and cheese is my go-to for short-notice meals,” he says. “That okay with you?”

“Absolutely.” I didn’t think I was hungry, but pasta with cheesy sauce sounds delicious.

I expect Marcos to bring out a box or two of Kraft, but instead he’s at the refrigerator, grabbing actual blocks of cheese, seasonings, and a jug of milk. “Want something to drink?” he asks, as he adds a bottle of beer to his load.

“I have wine already. I’ll be right back.”

I return to the living room in search of my glass, hoping I don’t run into Shane and thankful when no one’s around. The big house looks different to me now that I know who lives here. I had no idea construction workers made enough to afford such luxury, though of course, there are four of them, presumably pooling their money.

Last night, when Shane told me he had roommates, I imagined him living in an apartment like mine. I don’t know why he didn’t just bring me here. I’m sure he has a big bedroom where we could’ve had privacy. He seems so possessive, though; I’ll bet he didn’t even want his friends to see me. So much for that plan.

I take a big gulp of the wine and return to the kitchen, where Marcos already has a pot of water heating on the stove and something turning in the microwave.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

He gestures to a block grater sitting next to the hunks of cheese on the island. “Want to shred cheese? Sorry, we don’t have a food processor.”

That’s fine with me; I probably wouldn’t even know how to operate it. I peel the plastic wrapping off the block of cheddar and start to shred it over the cutting board, sampling a few pieces as I go.

Marcos takes a plate from the microwave. It turns out they were sausages, which he now adds to a pan on the stove, resulting in an appetizing sizzling sound.

“What game were you supposed to be at tonight?” I ask.

“Baseball,” he says. “Myrtle Beach Pelicans.”

“Khalil didn’t want to go with you?”

Marcos drops a big hunk of butter into another pan. “He’s not into sports much.”

“Do you do most of the cooking?” I ask this mainly to fill the silence as I move on to the second block of cheese, which is gouda. I sample this one too, because I’m not sure I’ve ever had it before. The entire cheese inventory in my refrigerator consists of a pack of individually wrapped slices of American.