Page 40 of Toy Boy

I don’t have the biggest outdoor space, no garden to speak of just a decent-sized courtyard out the back of my kitchen that’s perfect for nights like this. It’s enclosed, private, and isn’t really overlooked by anyone, which is partly the reason why I bought this house in the first place. I love living here in Beachcastle Bay, but once you step outside your front door everyone knows you. Fading into the background isn’t really an option, so it’s nice to have a place to come home to that’s quiet and, well, all mine.

Strings of fairy lights decorate the fence panels and bushes, lighting up the yard just enough without being either too dim or too bright, although it’s still daylight at the minute. The lights won’t kick into action, not properly, until the sun goes down. The table itself is lit by a couple of candle lanterns, and I’ve kept it informal, I prefer it that way. I think Xander will, too, he doesn’t strike me as the formal type. It all looks okay. Nothing special, but I’m not trying to impress anyone here. This is just me, having a friend over for dinner… Yeah. I’m kidding myself again. My nerves are shot, and my stomach hasn’t stopped dancing around like a hyperactive child all afternoon. I’ve already had two, small(ish) glasses of wine to try and settle those ridiculous nerves, and I know it’s stupid. I’m a soon-to-be-forty-four-year-old woman, not some over-excited teenager. I feel like one, though. Whether I like it or not.

Heading back into the kitchen, I check on the rice and the curry and make sure there’s enough beer in the fridge, even though he’ll be bringing some with him. How much is enough, anyway? A couple of bottles each? An entire crate? I’m deliberately creating problems now, so I go back outside and take a deep breath.

I haven’t exactly dressed up for tonight, either. I mean, I’ve washed my hair and put a little bit of make-up on, but as far as clothes are concerned I’m wearing a lime sundress and my trusty Converse. I want to keep something well within my comfort zone, and this is about as close as it’s going to get.

Checking my watch, I see that I’ve got about ten minutes before he’s due to arrive. I told him seven-thirty, but I’m not banking on him being bang on time, and that’s fine. It’s all very informal, remember? It’s just dinner, that’s all. Just dinner…

The doorbell ringing makes me jump, and I check my watch again. Okay. He’s early. That’s fine, too. Heading back into the kitchen, I take another deep breath as I make my way through the living room and out into the hallway, but I hesitate for a moment before I open the front door. I just need another second, but once I’ve taken that I fling the door open, and I’m greeted by a wide smile and those ice-blue eyes. He’s so ridiculously handsome it takes my breath away, and yes, that’s a cliché, I know, but sometimes only clichés will do.

“I brought beer.” He holds up a six-pack of my favorite Spanish lager, and I stand aside to let him in. There’s more than enough beer now, although, I won’t be drinking too much. I want to keep a clear head, I’ve still got work in the morning. That, and the fact I don’t want to make an idiot of myself.

“Go through to the kitchen and stick it on the counter.”

I follow him back through the living room and into the kitchen, and I grab two already cold beers from the fridge.

“Here you go.”

He takes the bottle from me and leans back against the counter, downing a long draft. “Thanks.” He looks around my pretty little compact kitchen, the French doors at the back leading out into the yard letting in heaps of light to make it a small but bright space. I love it. It’s perfect for me. This house is perfect for me, because it’s mine. “It’s a nice place you’ve got here.”

“It is. Walking distance to work, and just minutes away from the beach.”

He downs another mouthful of beer. “My place is rightonthe beach. Just a stone’s throw from the shop.” His eyes lock on mine, and I feel my stomach start to dip and dive, I mean, I knew it was going to do that the second he looked at me, but it’s kind of hard to pretend it isn’t happening now. “You should come and see it sometime. You get a great view of the sunset from the front porch.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just smile.

“That curry smells amazing!”

I’m grateful for his swift change of subject, and I go over to check on the rice, it should be almost done by now.

“It’s one of my special dishes. You know, one I never really stuff up, so I can only hope I haven’t done that tonight. I haven’t made it in a while.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I want it to be better than fine. I want it to be the best curry he’s ever eaten, and I don’t know why, I wasn’t supposed to be impressing anyone tonight, but he’s here, in my kitchen, and I really don’t know what to do. How to act. I need another drink…

“Could you pass me that pan?”

“This one?” He lifts up a large, round, flat pan that was sitting on the counter behind him.

“Yes. It’s the pan I use to cook flatbreads, crepes, pancakes, that kind of thing. It makes perfect naans.”

I take it from him and put it on the stove top, switching on the hob and reaching for the already rolled-out dough on a board next to the microwave.

“You’re making your own bread?”

“Flatbread.” I throw him a smile as I hover my hand over the pan to test the heat. “Homemade naans are actually really easy to do, and they only take minutes to cook. They also taste so much better than shop bought naan bread.”

“I’m impressed.” He flashes me a wide smile back and I feel my stomach flip over again, clenching it isn’t really stopping that from happening. I guess I’m just going to have to deal with it.

“Don’t be. It doesn’t take a huge amount of skill, anyone could do it.” I pick up a small cook’s blow torch from the corner of the counter. “You just need to be careful when using this thing, that’s all.” Hovering my hand just above the surface of the pan again, I gauge it hot enough to get started now. The pan has to be really hot to get the best results, in lieu of a tandoor oven. Not many of us have those at home.

Carefully picking up one of the uncooked naan breads, I place it on the pan before quickly lighting the blow torch.

“This cooks the top of the bread and gives it that nice, slightly charred look,” I shout over the noise of the torch as I move it slowly over the bread, watching as it bubbles up and starts to darken and cook. “Simple as that.” I slide the cooked bread onto a plate, and repeat the process with the second naan. “There. All done!”

He grins, and I know that I’ve got the biggest smile on my face, too, but I can’t help it. Suddenly I’m relaxed and the nerves have just, for some reason, gone. Yeah, I’m just going to run with that, not overthink this, and enjoy tonight. I can do that.

---