Page 73 of Call Me Sir

My eyes flutter closed and I let it sink in.

We’re only stopped by the jarring shriek of the timer on his phone.

Cole tears himself away and wipes his face. Blinking away bewilderment, he tears his gaze from me and what’s happened and stops the timer.

I watch as he carefully drains the pasta and sprinkles fresh herbs across the top of the sauce.

He’s meticulous as he does it, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, or anyone for that matter, work so diligently and delicately.

“Go sit,” he bosses me, and I listen.

From my seat I watch as he carefully fills two plates, pulls crisp garlic bread from the oven and places two pieces on each plate.

Without a word he places the plate in front of me, the heat from the warm dinner rising to greet me.

He seats himself across from me, and starts digging in. For once in my life, I understand the urge to take a photo of my food. The urge to boast about what I’m eating to the world. It’s a work of art.

But it’s not just the food, is it? It’s the man who made it, too, I suppose.

“I thought you liked Italian food?”

The question snaps me from my awe.

“This is art, Cole.”

A snort of laughter is his response.

I look up to meet his brown eyes bright with amusement. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Why aren’t you a professional chef?”

He laughs again, twirling the noodles with a fork.

“I’m not interested in restaurant life. It’s cool and all, but a little too fast paced for me.”

Too fast? The guy who takes his breaks in the parking lot getting fucked?

Jealousy swirls around my brain.

I try to focus on how it sounds like he has experience in the kitchen, rather than focusing on that broad shouldered douche bag fucking him.

It’s quiet for a long moment. I should ask him questions.

Instead, I dig into the meal so I don’t offend him.

The first bite is warm and inviting. I have to hold myself back from wolfing it down.

“My room is a disaster, by the way. I don’t think I have anything but a funeral suit for dinner tomorrow night.”

Maybe the funeral suit would be fitting…

“You don’t have any dressy pants?”

I can’t help but chuckle at the way he morphs his mouth into an unpleasant frown. “I mean, I guess I have some church pants somewhere…”

“What are church pants?”

I use the garlic bread to soak up some of the red sauce as he tells me they’re basically gray chino pants.

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