Page 38 of Roommate
“The soap dish in my bathroom,” he clarifies.
“Oh!” I wave a hand to dismiss this bit of nonsense. “Lucky find.” The dish is made from a single piece of waxed, carved wood. It reminded me of Kieran.
“I can pay you back,” he says.
“Sure, man. If you really want to, I’ll take your twenty-five cents.”
“Wait, what?”
“Church rummage sale. But look! I also got this…” I grab his muscular wrist and tug him over to the stove where my new Dutch oven waits. “It’s the best that four bucks can buy.”
“Wow.” He chuckles. “What are you going to make in that?”
“Not me, you. I shopped for your next lesson.”
“I want to pay for the groceries,” he says immediately.
“Fine. I still have the slip somewhere. Today you’re making pulled pork. The cooking time is five hours, so you’d better get started. Here.” I hand him a mixing bowl. “Two tablespoons of brown sugar. And a quarter cup of paprika. You’re making a dry rub.”
He blinks at me with sleepy eyes. “Before coffee?”
His expression is so unguarded and sweet that I just want to give him a hug. But I’ve learned that Kieran is not a toucher. When I sometimes slip up and pat his arm, he always grows still and wary.
I grab the stove-top espresso maker—another thrift-store find—and fill it with water. “I’ll caffeinate you. But you’re rubbing that butt.”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
“Pork butt. Also called shoulder or picnic roast, depending on where you are in the country. Preheat the oven to two seventy-five.”
“Isn’t that kind of low?”
“Yep! Low and slow. Just how I like my…” I break off laughing, because Kieran’s face is reddening already, and I haven’t even made the joke yet. “Never mind. We don’t have a slow cooker, so we’re using the oven. Real pulled pork is made in a smoker, but this will still be super good. If you ever get started.”
Kieran finally takes the hint and preheats the oven.
After I bully him into stirring six spices together, and rubbing the mixture all over four giant chunks of pork, he scatters a few quartered onions in the bottom of the pan and lays the spiced meat on top of it.
“There you go!” I cheer. “Put that puppy in the oven. Good. Now I’m going to make us some yeasted pancakes.” I set my new griddle on the stovetop. “We can’t smell pulled pork all day on empty stomachs.”
Kieran watches me stir together the batter I left overnight on the counter. “Can’t you make pancakes a little simpler than that?” He’s leaning against the counter, sipping the coffee I made for him. As he lifts the cup, I admire the dark hair on his tanned forearms and sigh inside.
“Sure. These are better, though. More flavor.” I whisk together the batter, and then turn on the burners under the griddle.
Kieran drains his coffee. “What’s that noise?”
“Hmm?”
“That weird little chirp. From your phone.”
I glance at the counter where my phone is charging. “You don’t know that sound, huh?” Fascinating.
“No?”
I grin. “That’s the sound Grindr makes when someone messages you.”
“Oh.” He looks into his empty mug.
“It’s another clue,” I add. Kieran doesn’t seem to date men or women, but there are times when I’m sure he’s checking me out. Then again, I’m sort of vain. And Kieran is the hardest man to read on earth.
