Page 22 of Hold Still

McKenna

OZZY’S KITCHEN ISbigger than my childhood house, including the basement. It has all the newest gadgets and appliances. Frankly, it’s my dream.

I slice lemons and oranges as garnish for the halibut. Who has fresh halibut in their refrigerator? It’s over thirty dollars a pound! Ozzy puts the finishing touches on the pan sautéed fish.

“Can you give me the platter over there?”

I hand it to him, careful not to make contact with his skin. “Did your mom make this for you growing up?”

He chuckles. “She would cook fish if we had a good day with our rods, but usually we were a chicken and rice type of family.”

“I seem to recall you’re from a big family.”

“I have one sister and two pain in the ass younger brothers. Plus, plenty of aunts, uncles and cousins.” He starts to assemble the salad. “How about you? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s just me.” Because I don’t want him to delve any deeper into my family, I deflect. “What’s your favorite dessert? I enjoy cooking, but I love making desserts.”

He pauses. “My favorite is this Puerto Rican cake called ‘Tres Leches,’ which means ‘three milks.’ It has evaporated milk, heavy cream and sweetened condensed milk in it and it’s so damn good.” He rubs his flat abs. “I don’t see it much around here, which is a good thing. I’d have to add another mile to my laps in the pool if I had easy access to it.”

My mouth waters at his description. “I’ll have to look it up. I’ve never heard of it. Maybe Grandma Gertie has.”

“That woman could turn a sinner into a saint with her cooking. I swear she makes the best blueberry muffins I’ve ever tasted.” He plates the fish and spoons some of the pan juices over each filet. It smells divine.

“Yeah, they’re pretty awesome.” Ever since she shared her recipe, I’ve been making them at least once a week. No doubts where my extra pounds came from.

He points to the citrus I cut. “Can you squeeze some of the lemons and oranges over the fish while I dress the greens?”

I do as I’m asked while he expertly finishes up the salad and stirs something in a smaller pot. Man, he eats healthy. And he doesn’t even have a pint of ice cream in the freezer—not that I checked or anything. When the meal is ready, I help him bring the platters to the eat-in kitchen table I had set before. “This is fun.”

He tips his head. “I do enjoy cooking a good meal with a beautiful woman.”

Heat warms my cheeks, but before I can reply, he asks, “More prosecco?”

Trying to hide my reaction to his compliment, I keep my head down and reply, “Sure, thanks.”

He points to the feast he whipped up and says, “Help yourself.” He disappears into the bar area while I make a plate for each of us. All of the fresh herbs dance in my nose.

He hands me my glass and puts two down for him, but neither are bubbly. “Water?”

“And tea. Better for my vocal cords.”

I didn’t realize how serious he was about his singing. Of course, I know that’s what he does for a living, but I guess I’ve never seen him in “work mode” before. Huh.

We dig in. The halibut is cooked perfectly. “Wow. If your writer’s block continues, you could make a name for yourself as the tatted chef. This is fantastic.”

“Thanks. I may need to take you up on it. Will you give me a good recommendation?”

I swallow the quinoa broccoli side dish, and smother a groan. It’s delicious—and I don’t evenlikebroccoli. “Without a doubt.”

He smiles, but I can see the hurt in his eyes. His writer’s block weighs on him. I finish off my prosecco and ask, “Seriously, have you tried looking for another collaborator?”

“No way. I’m done with that.” His utensils clatter to his now-empty plate. He adds agave to his tea.

“Okay. I didn’t mean to upset you.” I just need to light a fire under him so he can give me some songs to design my graphics around. “Maybe I can help?”

“Ever write a song before?”

“Well, no, but—”

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