He found another cutting board for himself and said he’d get started on the onions. They were to be cut in wedges so he could stick them on the skewers with the meat.
I didn’t fuck up with any of the six tomatoes. Go me.
I didn’t screw up with the mushrooms either, because all I had to do was cut off the stem or whatever it was called. The mushrooms would go on the kabobs too.
Next, King placed four big yellow bell peppers and a new beer in front of me.
“The last vegetable for the kabobs,” he said. “You want them cut into bigger chunks. Beer’s for drinkin’.”
I stared at him, waiting for further instructions.
Nothing?
I didn’t fucking know how he defined chunks.
He merely nodded at the board in a silent get to it.
All right. It was his loss.
I did what Nicky had taught me when I made salad at home; I cut around the core and—
“See, that’s a perfect waste of bell pepper,” King noted.
“That’s what you get for not telling me how to do it,” I argued.
He smiled and took over. “I want to see your mistakes before you learn from them.”
“You wanna get a laugh, that’s what you want.”
He chuckled warmly. “Hush, boy. Watch me.”
Boy.
I swallowed hard and felt my stomach clench. I hadn’t been called boy outside my family since I was in my twenties.
“You’ll see tutorials online by people who shouldn’t be allowed to make tutorials,” he told me, grabbing one of the bell peppers. “You need a single cut, nothing more. This? This goes.” He tore off the stem, then sliced the pepper in two halves. “You remove the core like this.” With his hands. “Then you can scrape out the pith with your fingers. My mama used a grapefruit spoon.”
“Pith? That’s the white edges inside?” I was hooked on watching him. His long, experienced fingers disappeared into the peppers and dug out those edges.
“Correct. And there you go. Nothing goes to waste.”
I couldn’t wait to tell my brother he’d been doing this all wrong.
“I already have so much to teach Nicky when I go home.”
King flashed me a grin and handed me the knife. “Each half can be cut into four chunks.”
Finally, good instructions.
“Thanks, Chef.” I took a long sip from my beer, no longer tired, and I was in a great mood. Fuck, this trip was already feeling like a success. And I liked King. He was friendly and funny. I felt like I could banter with him. “I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get my Ghost moment, though.”
I shouldn’t have said that while he was in the middle of drinking. He coughed and quickly turned to the sink where he spat out a mouthful of beer, and then he croaked out a sexy laugh.
“Whatta waste of beer,” I muttered, highly pleased with myself.
“Can New York produce anythin’ other than brats?” King wiped his mouth on a towel and sighed good-naturedly. “Y’all come out lookin’ like bad boys who’re all cocky and rough around the edges, but when push comes to shove, you’re just sweet little shit-stirrers.”
Was he placing me in the same category as Camden? I’d guessed he was from the East Coast already, but he’d lost a lot of his accent. And either way…uh, no. I wasn’t that kind of Little.
“There’s a lot to unpack there.” I went back to my task of cutting up the bell peppers. “I’m not cocky. Rough around the edges—maybe. Shit-stirrer? No. But I am sweeter than sugar.” I side-eyed King and caught his little smile. “I take it Camden’s from New York originally?”
“Indeed, he is.” He nodded. “It’s only an issue when we watch baseball and football. The poor boy wouldn’t know a good team if it smacked him upside the head.”
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,
