Page 41 of Show Off

“Eggs?” He stops squeezing water from shredded potatoes and sets the towel on the counter. “Low heat, nice and slow. Flaky sea salt and fresh cracked pepper. A shower of soft herbs, maybe dill or parsley. Chives if I’ve got ’em.” He unwraps the towel and seasons the soon-to-be hash browns with salt and pepper. “You?”

“Same.” I go back to beating my eggs, conscious of him watching. “You going to tell me I’m doing it wrong?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet a moment. “Not unless you want me to.”

“I don’t.” Except maybe I do. “That’s the thing.” The fork slips again, and I fish it back out of the bowl. “If someone asks for your input, it’s fine to be blunt. They’re telling you they can take it.”

He’s quiet a moment, considering. “What if they really need to hear it?”

“Who’s the best judge of that?”

“Depends on the situation, I suppose.”

I keep right on whipping, conscious of Dal’s eyes on me. Of the robe slipping off my shoulder. I tug it back up and grip the edge of the bowl. I lost count of how many eggs I slid in here, but there’s more than enough for two. “You want some?”

“Yes, please.”

I wipe off the fork and start beating again as my robe slips down my shoulder. Before I can fix it, Dal steps behind me.

“Here.” He tugs the silk back up my shoulder and I shiver.

“Thanks.”

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Mad at me?”

I don’t answer right away. “I’m not mad.” I glance over at him through my lashes. Should I be honest?

Screw it. “Just feeling a little…disrespected.”

“Disrespected.” He says it like he’s tasting the word. “Because I questioned your methods?”

I nod and focus on the eggs. “It’s not just that.” Something in how he’s watching me makes me let down my guard. “It’s been a long week. A long couple of weeks, if I’m being honest.” Since the day Mom first called and asked me to—“Did you like the chowder at O’Brien’s?”

If he’s surprised by my abrupt change of subject, he doesn’t show it. “The truth?”

I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “You hated it?”

“Nope.” A grin tugs the edge of his mouth. “It was outstanding.”

Dropping my hand from the bowl, I punch him in the shoulder. “Dick.”

“What?” He’s laughing as he leans against the counter, way too close for comfort. From the corner of my eye, I take him in. He’s wearing loose gray sweatpants and—of course—no shirt. A trail of dark hair dips low at the waistband and disappears. And under the drawstring, an impressive bulge?—

“My mistake.”

I jerk my eyes up to look at him. “What?”

“You said dick.” Laughter sparks in his eyes. “I thought you were insulting me, not ogling me.”

Heat burns my cheeks as I grit my teeth. “I wasn’t ogling. Just wondering what brand those sweatpants are.”

“Champion?” Dal looks bemused. “It says so in giant letters down the left leg.”

“So it does.” I really want to hate him, but I can’t stop wanting him. “Why did you tease me?”

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