Page 7 of The Kitchen Contract

Let’s do this.

7

ALEX

Ithink I might break a record speeding home after work, even with two stops to pick up pizza and a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Leaving the food in the kitchen, I hurry to change into fresh, more casual clothes than the button-down and slacks I wear at the office. Pulling on a hunter green t-shirt and tan cargo shorts, I slide my feet into a pair of black Chacos and check the time. Ten minutes till six. I wander back into the kitchen to wait, wondering if Nora is a punctual person. I’m not naturally so myself, but growing up in a family of type-A business people forced me to acquire the trait.

When the doorbell rings at 5:58, I jump even though I was expecting her. I dart into the hall and see her silhouette on the other side of the frosted glass door, waiting for me to let her in.

Swinging the door open wide, I give her my most charming smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she answers with a tentative smile of her own.

“Come on in.” I usher her forward and close the door behind her. “Just follow me to the kitchen and we’ll get this party started.”

Her smile hints at amusement. “A party? I thought this was just a kitchen tour.”

“Anything is a party with the right food and company. Pizza is definitely party food, you seem like a fun person, and I’ve been told I’m a fun guy, so yeah, it’s a party.”

“A party for two is usually just called a date,” she quips as we stop beside the island. Her eyes widen and she flushes, hurrying to clarify. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. This is definitely not a date. So…” She clears her throat and looks around, clearly trying to change the subject. “This is your kitchen.”

She looks adorable with her pink cheeks, her nervous fingers twisting the strap of the messenger bag slung over her shoulder. I’m tempted to press the date comment, but I take mercy on her and follow her lead.

“Yep, this is it. As you can see, it has several nice features.” I reach deep inside for the realtor training I received years ago as a condition of working in the family real estate business. Even though I manage the HR department of the Nashville branch of Lockwood Properties and have virtually nothing to do with the buying and selling of properties, my dad wanted all of us to have that foundation. “You’ll notice the marble countertops, double oven, and my favorite feature, a state-of-the-art microwave.” I pat the appliance affectionately. “She keeps me fed.”

Nora humors me with a chuckle, and my grin broadens as I continue.

“Here we have an extra wide island, recessed on one side for bar stools. It gets great natural light from the glass doors just there.” I gesture to the French doors that lead to the back patio. “Which makes it the perfect place to set up for filming. Or for watercolor painting.”

I’m doing my best to sell this place, and if her approving nods are any indication, I think it’s working.

“Watercolors, huh? Are you an artist?”

“Nope, never held a paintbrush. But I watched a movie about an artist once and the main character was adamant that natural light is essential.”

She raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or confused by that anecdote.

“So, any questions?” I rub my hands together. “Or are you ready to start eating pizza?”

“How about both?”

“Works for me. Have a seat. I’ll grab some plates.” Normally I would eat it straight out of the box, but I’m striving to impress, so I retrieve two white plates from the cabinet and set them out with two real water glasses—not the cheap plastic tumblers I usually use.

Nora settles her bag on one corner of the island and slides onto a stool. She continues to examine the kitchen, and I wonder what she’s thinking.

“Would you like water or…” I glance inside the near-empty fridge. “Blue Powerade? Or milk, though I don’t suppose that would be the conventional choice to go with pizza.”

“Water is fine, thanks.”

“One water, coming right up.”

She’s quiet as I assemble everything, and I have to fight not to fill the silence with small talk. My siblings have told me before that not everyone appreciates a verbal infinite stream of consciousness. Actually, I think their exact words were something closer to “For the love of Pete, do you ever stop talking?”

Finally, I settle onto the stool next to her and open up the pizza box, inhaling the cheesy, tomato-saucy scent. “I didn’t know what kind of toppings you like, so I went with classic cheese.”

“Cheese is good.” Nora reaches for a slice and slides it to her plate. I grab two slices and dig in, my lunch long gone.

“So, what do you think?”

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