Page 56 of Man Hands
I follow him toward the appetizers, and he hands me a plate. “Brynn—this is very important — these right here are the key to life.” He uses tongs to transfer four little golden balls to myplate.
“I love balls,” I say, and I draw out the wordballs. Because I am ateenager.
We load up our plates, then gallop back to the table, where I try the little ball-shaped fritters right away. “Oh. My. God.” I’m having a cheese orgasm. Acheesegasm. “Whatwasthat?”
“I know, right? They call it a pão dequeijo.”
I eat another one immediately. Each one is a savory puff of pastry, filled with salty cheese. “Where have these been all my life? I’m going to make some when we get home.” I just have to. It’s hard to take a minute and snap some pictures for reference, but I force myself to, because I feel like I’ve stumbled onto a eureka moment here.Baaaaallllllls.
“My kitchen is available,” Tom says with a wink. “I’ll be your tastetester.”
I give him a big smile, and it takes me a long beat to remember that cooking to please men isn’t something I want to do anymore. But Tom makes it easy to forget. He looks at me with hungry eyes—but notforfood.
That would probably change if we were a real couple. He’d get sick of me just like Steve did. When he looked at me a year from now, he’d only see the dinner plate in myhands.
Nope. Not going there again. I am a new woman, or at least a slightly improved, more focusedwoman.
We mow down our appetizers in companionable silence. It’s comfortable, this quiet. Not like when you’re on a first date and you feel like you’re about to be prepped for a pap smear. This is the kind of quiet where there’s no spike and anxiety and the only clenching of thighs is because I’m excited, not panicked. Then Tom taps my red coaster. “Ready?”
“Bringiton.”
He smiles at me and then flips the coaster to the green side. Ten seconds later two glorious things happen: our unbuttoned waiter sets two minty, frothy drinks on the table. Andanotherhalf-clad waiter pauses beside me, hoisting a two-foot metal barbecue spit over my plate. I swear to god there’s a fan pointed at him because his hair is blowing like he’s an old-school romance cover model. It makes me want to spritz him. With something. Lost my focus. Oh! Food. There are several pounds of luscious, browned pork impaled on the metal spike. “Ham?” the youngmanasks.
“Don’t mind if we do!”Tomsays.
The man uses a scary-looking knife to shave a healthy slice of meat off the spit, then deftly angles it to fall right on my plate. Then he does the sameforTom.
“Wow.” I cut off a corner of the meat and tuck it into my mouth. “This is amazing. Let’s just move in here and callitgood.”
“You are seriously fun,” Tom says, popping another cheese ball into his mouth. “My ex would only eat protein shakes and kalejuice.”
“Sounds like a party.” Then I grimace, and it’s only partly because of kale juice.Do not ask about his ex, I coach myself.You do not want to know. Tonight is not for reality. Tonight is for dining on Brazilian barbecue in a big restaurant full of half-dressed waiters who parade ten different kinds of meat aroundtheroom.
Tonight is prettydamngood.
“Does my favorite foodie want a glass of red wine to go with her dinner?” Tom asks. “Or should we stick with thecaipirinhas?”
“That is a seriously tough choice.” I give it some thought. “Let’s stick with the caipirinhas, because we can have red wine anytime.” Although—hang on—the taste of my drink makes me wonder if my blog should branch out to exotic cocktails too. But the ingredients might be a challenge. “They must buy mint by thebushelhere.”
Tom shrugs. “Mint is the easiest thing in the world to grow—it’ll take over the garden if you let it. So will oregano. That whole family of herbs are bullies in the garden. You can’t kill ’em even ifyoutry.”
“Really?” I want that—wonderful herbs outside my back door. “I think I need an herb garden, then. I want to waltz right outside and pluck mint and oregano for my recipes. And sprigs of herbs would look great in my blogphotographs.”
“You know what’s funny?” Tom asks, waving down a waiter who’s carrying a giant skewer of steak. “You and I are in the same line of work almost. I make houses pretty, and you makeprettyfood.”
I snort. “The difference is that you’re successfulatit.”
“We’ll see.” His facedarkens.
“Wait. Didn’t it go well today?” Now I feel like a heel for not asking sooner. I’d leapt on him the second he came home. There had been no timetoask.
Tom fiddles with his fork. “The network is being difficultabout…”
“Ourvideo?”
“Yeah. They’re waiting to see how their conservative viewers will react, which pisses me off. Like—just decide for yourself, you cowards. If they fired me, I could get mad and move on. But now I’m in the awkward place of trying to prove that I’m worthy.” He rolls his eyes. “Ihateit.”
“Oh, honey!” I cover his hand with mine. “I’m so sorry. Those turds. They’d be crazy to fire you. I mean, I’m no expert, but you have a really fine way of holding your, ehm,hammer.”
