Page 22 of When the Walls Come Down
“Damn,” she whispered. “So you’re one of the lucky ones with the good view.” She marched straight to the sliding glass door leading to my balcony.
I didn’t go out there much. I wasn’t big on heights. “Don’t you have the same one?”
“Um, no. Mine is next to yours, but I’m looking directly at the building next door. There’s only a sliver of a view closest to the wall that separates our terraces.” She took it upon herself to heave the door open and step outside. The light wind blew her curls into her face, but she shook them away and leaned over the rail.
“Hey, careful. I’ll never live it down if you jump off the building on our first date.” Had I not been in the middle of the don’t scorch the fucking garlic portion of the recipe, I would have yanked her back inside where it was safer—and closer. “I need your help, please,” I said instead.
Without hesitation, she came back inside and looked around the open kitchen-dining-living area on her way to the island, where I was working.
“Whatcha need?”
“I need you to open that wine.” I gestured to the bottle and corkscrew opener across from me.
“Are you trying to tell me, with those guns of yours, you can’t open a bottle of wine?”
Why did I love it when she gave me shit so much? Complimenting the guns didn’t hurt, either. I’d worked hard for them, and I was all too happy she’d noticed.
“No. I’m saying every time I’ve ever tried, I’ve mangled up the cork. Then there are little bits floating in it and…” I trailed off, remembering a time I’d long forgotten. A time when nothing I’d done was right, and my ex-wife had found any and every reason to remind me of just that. “Doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to open it, I have beer or water.”
Just like she had two hundred times that evening, she lifted her arm to slip her sweater back into place. It was official: I had a love-hate relationship with that item of clothing. It was like, give me the fucking shoulder all the time or do your damn job. Make a choice.
“Where are your wine glasses?” she asked, walking around the island after expertly opening the bottle. “Actually, I’m not that fancy. Any glass will do.”
As I moved things around the pan, doing my best to not mess the sauce up, I motioned to the cabinet beside the sink. I hadn’t even noticed she’d come over barefoot, but I didn’t mind.
Bare shoulder.
Bare feet.
The barer the better as far as I was concerned.
She poured us both liberal glasses, and I added the tomato puree and the cream Blake had premeasured for me. I owed my sister—big time.
“Wow. You were really prepared,” she said skeptically from the seat she’d taken across from me, eyeing the card I kept looking at. “You sure do take dinner-for-one seriously.” She sipped her wine with a shit-eating grin.
“I will confess I’ve had help.” I salted and turned the water on to boil, feeling sufficiently good about how the sauce was shaping up. “I’m sure it’s hard to believe, but I don’t do much cooking.”
“You don’t say.”
“I know. I know. You look at me and think Julia Child, but deep down, I’m really just an eat-out-every-night, hardly-anything-in-the-fridge, DoorDash kind of guy. What about you? Do you cook?”
“I know enough to be dangerous, but I’m not hosting any dinner parties anytime soon.” Her head fell to the side. “I can make a damn good cup of coffee though.”
“Good to know.” I liked how easy this back-and-forth was and decided to up the ante while the meal was on autopilot for a bit. “Okay. What about music? Likes? Dislikes?”
Her head bobbled as she stared up, thinking. “I guess I don’t really have a favorite, but I love music. So pretty much anything goes. As long as it has a decent melody and good lyrics. I’m a sucker for a duet though.”
“No country?”
She scoffed. “Wow, you are just full of assumptions. No country. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t wear cowboy boots or attend rodeos, either. What about you?”
“I’ve never been to a rodeo, but I’ll never say never on cowboy boots.”
She laughed. “I meant music, smartass.”
“I don’t listen to much. Mainly up-tempo stuff at the gym, but I do love some old-school alternative. I guess I come by it honest, being from Seattle.”
“That makes sense. Movies?” she asked with one eyebrow arched.
“Die Hard, but I enjoy a good series binge more than movies lately.” I took a drink, and although I usually wasn’t much of a wine guy, I had to admit it was refreshing and a nice change. “Breaking Bad was awesome. Big Sopranos fan. But I loved The Office and Arrested Development too.”
“You should watch Ozark,” she said and slapped her hand down onto the stone countertop. “It’s so fucking good.”
