Page 20 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

From her response, I definitely know she didn’t call around for a replay of Saturday night. And I’m pretty confident she didn’t swing by just to thank me for the Bergdorf’s delivery, so now she has me intrigued. Why is she here?

When we get into my apartment, she follows me through to the kitchen.

“More snacks?” she asks, as I wash my hands. I wasn’t planning to cook, but now she’s here and asking for food, I’m not going to say no.

“What do you want?” I ask.

She hums to herself. “Have you got any asparagus? With Parmesan?”

“It’s February,” I say. “Asparagus is out of season. I like to keep my food air miles down.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “And I thought you were just a nice piece of ass. There’s a social conscience inside that pretty little head of yours.”

“Fuck you,” I say through a smile.

“What’s on the menu?” She slides up on the countertop where she sat Saturday night, watching me make her omelet. Where we first made out. Where we first fucked.

Today she’s wearing a blazer, white t-shirt, and a tight navy skirt that hits just below the knee, and her hair is tied back in a ponytail. All I can think about is how it felt to tug on her hair. She looks fucking phenomenal.

“You really are up for a replay, aren’t you?” I say.

“You’re not getting me naked today,” she says. “But I definitely want food. So what is it?”

I think for a moment. Now that I have her here, what can I imagine feeding her? Melted chocolate? No, I’m thinking about feeding off her. I need to get my head in the game.

The Parmesan gives me an idea. “Lemon linguine?” I suggest.

She shrugs. “Sounds good.”

I set to work, putting the pasta on to boil and pulling cream, eggs, lemons, and parm out of the fridge. This is a favorite.

“How did you learn to cook?” she asks.

I hand her the cheese grater and the block of parm. “Get to work. But wash your hands first.”

“I didn’t come here for this,” she says, but she slides off the counter and goes to wash her hands in any event.

“Right, but until you tell me why you’re actually here, you can get to work. Earn your supper.”

She doesn’t respond. She just does as she’s told, which I know is highly unusual. Whatever it is she’s here for, she must really want it.

When she’s finished with the cheese, I take the grater and start on the lemon zest.

“You really enjoy cooking, don’t you?” she asks, as she watches me, leaning on the counter.

“It’s like meditation to me.”

“That’s like Bravo to me.”

“Bravo?”

“You know, the TV channel. I can’t watch those shows and think about anything else. They empty my mind.”

I chuckle. “Only one option provides sustenance.”

“True. But one is highly entertaining. So your grandma teach you or something?” she asks.

“My dad,” I say. I never talk about my dad. He’s been dead such a long time and it’s not a light subject. When I interact with people, I don’t want it to be about me, so nothing I reveal is particularly memorable. I want my conversations to focus on them.