“Let me guess, you were in Home Ec. because of a girl?” I return my eyes to his when he turns around.
“Lucy Kent.”
Of course. Why aren’t I surprised that he was after the prettiest girl at Bridgewater High? Lucy was “the whole package”, as he likes to call it—gorgeous, smart and personable—even in our teens. Suffice it to say, all the girls were jealous of her.
“Richard Dean and I kinda both had a thing for her. Anyway, I went out with her first.” He grins, not realising the little comment about his past triumph twisted a knife in my gut. He uses a folded tea towel to grab the tray out of the oven. “Everything I know about cooking, I owe my mom, and Aunty Lorenda.” He grabs a bowl from the shelf below the microwave for the meat filling, and extracts a flat serving dish for the taco shells from the cupboard above the sink.
I get the feeling he knows my kitchen better than I do.
“How are the salad and cheese doing?”
His question startles me—I was busily checking out his butt again. He really is beautiful. More so now that I know other sides to him that I never imagined in my teenage fantasies.
“Chopped up, and grated, chef.”
He turns around with a corner of his mouth quirked at my teasing. “Great. Everything’s ready then. Let’s eat?” He takes the bowl and tray to my little two-seater table while I bring over the platter of salad vegetables, and bowl of grated cheese. I’ve already set two plates and serving spoons on the table.
He goes back to the bench for the silver sachet of salsa, grabbing a small bowl to pour it in on the way to the table.
“There. Took twenty minutes to prepare,” he says with a proud grin that reminds me of his mother’s when she’s teaching me to cook. Have I become the McAllisters’ pet public service project? Teach poorly-raised woman how to cook. “Using the taco kit is a bit of a cheat but I don’t believe in making everything from scratch if you don’t need to.”
“Thank God for that,” I say, and we share a smile.
Keats sits on the only other chair at my table. He grabs himself a shell and a spoon, then begins filling in the taco. I surreptitiously copy what he’s doing—tacos haven’t been part of my eating repertoire. Even the taco kit variety was too much to contemplate for my father.
“So, what did you want to talk about with the wedding?” I study my taco, wondering how I could eat it without the whole thing collapsing like a sticky house of cards. I think I’ve overfilled mine. I learnt from Isabella that Keats only dates women who can eat a taco with grace and poise. Is he going to judge me if I eat messily? But this isn’t a date…and he didn’t seem to care that Isabella eats like the Cookie Monster.
“Is it still going ahead?” he asks before angling his head to the side to bite one end of the shell. I fixate on his teeth and the movement of his jaws as he chews with his mouth closed.
“Yes. Isabella’s still arriving on Friday next week, and the engagement party’s still on the following day.”
“Damn.” He takes another bite, reminding me I am yet to start on my dinner.
I bring the taco to my mouth, bite one end just like Keats did, and the whole thing implodes on me through a crack that splits it horizontally in the middle. My lap is saved by my cleavage which catches the filling.
“Shit!” I just failed the Taco Test. My cheeks burn even hotter than the newly cooked meat searing through my blouse. I swipe the mess off my chest, sending bits of mince across the table at my eating companion.
Keats quickly stands up, knocking over his chair backwards as he inspects whether anything has touched his designer work clothes. I spot a salsa-covered bit of grated carrot sticking to his neck but with the movement of his pulse, it slowly slides down beneath the collar of his expensive shirt.
“I’m so sorry!” I can’t help the chuckle that escapes after my apology. The look of horror on his face when he saw the salsa sauce on the front of his pinstriped shirt was just too comical—he’s being so prissy. And I laugh at the most inappropriate times.
“This isn’t funny.” His left hand deftly undoes the top two buttons on his dress shirt. After, he tackles the rest of his top with two hands. He pulls the hem loose from his pants letting the shirt fall and gape at the front to reveal the taut centre of his swimmer’s physique. He then turns his arm, inner wrist up, to start working on his cuff links. First one, then the other. This all happens in less than fifteen seconds, but it plays in slow motion to me.
Pwroar!
Walking over to my kitchen sink, Keats completely pulls off his business shirt. His skin is pale, like he spends too much time in the office to get a tan, but his body is firm and lightly muscled with a tattoo on his right pec of the lion from the British Coat of Arms wearing a cowboy hat instead of a crown.
I watch his reflection on the window pane above the sink while he runs water over the salsa stain. As he scrubs the material of his shirt together, the ink lion dances on his chest. It’s hypnotic, a trance I barely have enough sense to break. I grab a spare plastic bag from my pantry for his wet shirt. A smile plays on my lips the whole time, and belatedly, I remember that my own clothes are in a far worst state.
I take a tea towel off the oven
