Page 31 of Duke
Duke is, I mean. Not Jesus, at least not as far as I know. They’re simple, with round lenses and a black plastic frame that fades to brown at the bottom of the lenses.
Damn does he lookgoodin them.
Really, really good, like some kind of Robert Redford–coded rugged professor of postmodern literature.
Since when am I tempted to make passes at a guy who wears glasses?
“Teamwork, remember?” Looking away, I head for the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us. “I like the glasses, by the way.”
“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “My eyes were killing me, so I had to take out my contacts.”
“Really. Why? Doyounot like them?”
“Hell no. That’s why I never wear ’em. I think they make me look like a dork.”
“Dorks are cool now.”
He grins. “If you say so.”
The windows are blank, reflecting the lights inside the house. The wind howls. I nearly jump when the house is hit by a gust, a crackling sound reverberating through the windows.
I freeze. “What’s that?”
“Sleet.” Duke’s knees crack as he rises. “No biggie. Trust me when I say this house has seen much worse.”
The ceiling creaks. I look up. “You sure about that?”
“Aspen’s snowstorms ain’t got nothin’ on Hartsville’s tornadoes.” He casually pads over to the kitchen like we’re notfacing the real possibility of a snow-induced apocalypse. “I’m sure. Wine?”
“Yes.”
He smirks as he starts opening cabinets. “You gettin’ the shakes?”
“Yeah, I’m getting the shakes.” I glance at the windows. “Maybe this really is our last night on earth.”
“God’s got an awful sense of humor if that’s the case, making us drink this shit on our way out.” Duke reaches for the boxed wine. “Hopefully it’s not too bad.”
It’s actually decent. I down my first glass while I make the grilled cheese. Duke once again proves himself to be a marvelous assistant. He softens the butter in the microwave. He digs a spatula out of a nearby drawer. He finds plates, napkins, and a serrated knife, which he uses to cut the sandwiches into neat diagonals.
He also looks really cute with wine-stained lips. And the glasses—
It’s almost too much.
He picks my brain about the finances of a trunk show as we eat at the counter. I’ve never met someone as interested in accounting as Duke is except, well, my actual accountant. It’s weirdly sexy.
So is the way he inhales my grilled cheese. I’m glad I made extra. Only when I assure him I’m full does he grab seconds.
“You good?” He wipes his mouth on a napkin.
I nod. “I’m great.” I’m just tipsy enough to add, “Should we slap the bag now that we have a solid carb base?”
I mean, why not, right? I’ve been texting with the owners of Aspen Leather Company, and they said chances are our trunk show is going to have to be pushed back. Last I checked, snow totals for downtown Aspen went from twelve inches to eighteen, with locally heavier snow amounts possible.
Duke grins, and then he takes our plates before standing up. “I thought you’d never ask. Go sit. I’ll clean up.”
“I’ll help—”
“Whoever cooks doesn’t clean. Sit.”
