We Have Till Monday

I didn’t care about football, but baseball was another matter.

“Tread carefully now, King.” I lifted a brow at him. “You’re talkin’ to a Mets fan.”

He blanched at that for some reason, and he sent a skyward glance as if asking for strength. It was funny. “In other words, you wouldn’t know a good team if it smacked you upside the head either.”

I withheld my humor—or I tried to, anyway. “Camden roots for the Mets?”

“He does,” King replied somberly. “Everyone has flaws.”

Fuck that, I was proud. “A boy after my own heart. Good for him.”

King hummed and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. “So you’d say he’s got good taste?”

Obviousl—wait. There was a cue I didn’t wanna miss out on, but I had to be wrong. Right? Because if he was… No. No, he wouldn’t move this into flirting territory. Would he?

Screw it. No matter the level he was asking on, the answer was the same.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

He eyed me for a beat longer, frustratingly unreadable, then dropped his gaze to my cutting board. “I’m serving Hasselback potatoes with the kabobs. It’ll be up to you if you need me to be the Patrick Swayze to your Demi Moore.”

Mannaggia. He thought I could slice the potatoes like that? I fucking loved Hasselback potatoes, but you had to slice them real thin. And not all the way through.

“I reckon I should take a step back on that one,” I said hesitantly. No matter how much I most likely would’ve enjoyed my Ghost moment.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He smirked and opened one of the drawers where they kept their knives. They had countless of them. “You won’t learn if no one gives you a challenge.”

“Right, but baby steps—”

“Are for babies. Watch me first. Then you try.” His assertiveness made it impossible to argue.

I watched as he grabbed a few potatoes from one of the bags and placed them on the board. Then he bent down a little and started slicing the first potato with perfect accuracy, stopping about half an inch before he would hit the board.

It was porn. His fingers gripping the razor-sharp knife, the blade slicing through the potato, each slice about two or three millimeters thick, the muscles moving sensually along his forearm.

“I’ll just keep watching you,” I murmured. I bent down too, my elbow hitting the counter, and my cheek in my hand.

I’d thought about music before, idly, that we coulda used some, but now I was thankful I hadn’t suggested any. It was enough to hear his calm breaths and the faint sound of the knife sliding through the potato.

“I don’t think so.” When he’d finished three of them, he said it was my turn. “I’ll grab a couple baking sheets—you get started.”

Fuck.

For having watched his hands so closely, one might think I knew exactly how to hold the knife.

I didn’t.

I had to get closer too. I didn’t know how he’d managed to cut with such precision without eyeballing the potato two inches away, but that was going to be my approach. Okay, maybe not two inches. Eight or nine.

Carefully, slowly, holding my breath, I cut into the potato and stopped before I was all the way through. The middle would be easier, I hoped. The ends were rounded and narrower, and it was difficult to know when to stop.

A breath gusted out of me. Next slice—two or three millimeters thick.

Slow and steady wins the race, right?

After King set two baking sheets on the counter, he leaned closer to inspect my work, and I was granted another whiff of his masculine scent.

“That looks great,” he complimented. “Continue exactly like that and we can have perfect Hasselback potatoes by next week.”

I cut straight through that motherfucking potato, clanked the knife against the board, and straightened up to scowl at the chef.

He was doing his best not to laugh, failing miserably. “Well, you weren’t supposed to cut through it.”

“I fuckin’ swear,” I grated. “You had to ruin it!”

While laughing even harder, he closed the distance and guided me back into position, and I sorta checked out. His hands were on me, one on my back, the other along my side. He was touchy-feely, wasn’t he? Was it a Southern thing?

“It’s time for Ghost. I’ll show you.” Mr. Chuckles sidled up slightly behind me so he could line up his right arm alongside mine and adjust my grip on the knife. “You’re a musician. Camden told me you play the piano.”

“Among others,” I muttered, wondering what he was getting at. It would be close to impossible to concentrate if he was going to stay where he was. I felt his body heat through my T-shirt.

“So you should be good with your fingers,” he said.

“You have no fucking idea.” Yeah, I went there, despite that his tone indicated he was only talking about…well, slicing potatoes.