Page 75 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
When I walk in the house, there’s a strong smell of fish, but not in the foul way I’d expected. The air is heavy with lemon, spices and the sounds of chopping. My stomach growls and I follow my nose to the kitchen, noticing everything is much cleaner than when I left this morning. So clean, in fact, that I wonder if I’ll find Frankie in the kitchen. That would make more sense than Archie cooking and cleaning.
What I find in the kitchen—to my surprise—is Archie at the kitchen island, his bare back to me. He’s in his usual day wear of board shorts and nothing else, except a full apron.
And, yeah, it’s been a few days, but it doesn’t take much to reignite the image of his little towel-dropping antic. Especially when his shorts sit just below his waist, clinging to his hips for dear life, so when he crouches down to get a pan from a lower cabinet, I hold my breath until he stands back up and his shorts stay with him.
“Hey,” I say as he starts to bend again. I can only take so much temptation before I won’t be able to look away from my own personal Thunder From Down Under show.
Archie startles and turns around. “Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I’m about to ask him where Frankie is when the picture on his apron catches my attention.
Archie, shirtless and in board shorts with a stunning view of the ocean behind him, is wearing a full apron with a “Surf City High” image of him, Dex, and Rhys…wait for it…shirtless and in board shorts, Frankie in a bikini, all of them holding surfboards against a backdrop of blue skies and the ocean.
I mean, this has probably been the worst day of my life, but I can’t let this meta moment pass without comment.
“Nice apron.” I point to his chest.
Archie looks down and smooths his hand down the front of the apron. “Cheers. Figured you’d admire the shameless self-promo.”
I laugh.
He smiles.
My day gets a little better.
“Is she here?” I poke my finger at Frankie and hit Archie’s ab—I’m guessing number four of his sixpack. He jolts like I’ve hit a live wire.
“Are you…” I want to say ticklish, but if I do and he says yes, I’ll have to confirm and knowing I can torture Archie—in a good way—feels risky. “Cooking?”
“Frankie is hanging with Dex and Britta tonight, and yes, I’m cooking. I told you I’d have dinner waiting.” He sprinkles salt over some kind of white fish. A cutting board on the island is covered with avocados and tomatoes in various stages of being chopped. Fresh corn is on the grill side of the stove, and Archie actually looks as if he knows what the hell he’s doing.
“I assumed you meant takeout.”
Archie laughs. “Why would you assume that?”
“You said you can’t cook.”
He shakes his head. “I never said I can’t cook. Idon’tcook. At least I didn’t while Dex and Britta were living here. She insisted on doing it all.”
“So…youcancook?” I cross my arms and study him.
“Of course I can cook. Did you think Dex won a world championship eating fast food while we traveled?” He smirks. “His nutritionist planned the meals. I prepared all of them.”
Thisis a fascinating turn of events. Once again, I’ve underestimated Archie.
“So, no Frankie?” I scan the room for signs of her, wondering why my pulse is pounding at the idea of being alone with Archie.
“No Frankie. I thought we could do dinner, just the two of us.” Color creeps up his neck to the tips of his ears, and the same heat travels across my skin.
I uncross my arms and move closer. “All right. Show me what you’ve got.”
Archie glances at me with a smile, then moves to his left to make room for me.
We’re inches apart, and over the combined scents of onion and cilantro, I smell coconut sunscreen, lapping waves, and the faint trace of board wax and wind-warmed skin. I smellhim.
“Should I be worried?” I ask him, almost without thinking.
“About what?”
