Page 24 of Savage Seduction

“Not at all.” I step inside and immediately feel at ease. Our styles are similar—no clutter, clean lines, dark woodfloors, and a white sofa with red patterned throw pillows. And the place smells amazing. “Are you cooking something?”

“Was it the apron that gave it away?” Ben asks, pointing at himself.

I laugh. “Actually, I didn’t even notice the apron… but I love whatever is cooking in the kitchen.”

“It’s my family’s world-famous ravioli. Only I bake it into a casserole rather than the traditional serving style.”

“I love Italian food,” I say. “World-famous? Really?”

Ben chuckles and covers his smile with his hand. “Okay, you got me. My grandmother won a cook-off in a small suburb of Chicago, many moons ago, and ever since it’s been our family’s biggest right to brag.”

“I love it.” I glance over a small terracotta sculpture on the built-in shelf across the living room. “No way… is that a Picasso?” I hurry over to it, leaning in to get a better look but careful not to touch it uninvited.

“Wow, you really know your art.” Ben comes over to stand next to me. “My grandfather knew a guy who knew a guy who traded Picasso a statue for a dinner and a free place to stay for the night. Apparently, the world famous painter wasn’t that well to do while he was alive.”

“That’s absolutely true.” I turn to face him. “He was one of those artists who became appreciated posthumously. Not that many people realize that toward the end of his life he’d started dabbling in small terracotta figurines, mostly of animals. This looks like it might have been a cat?”

“I think you’re right,” Ben says with a smile. “I’m glad you appreciate these kinds of things. The last few people I’d invited to my house asked if I had made it in grade school.”

We both share a laugh.

“You have a lovely home, Ben. I share a lot of your taste in design.”

“Thank you,” he says, his face blushing a cute hue of pink. “Oh, would you mind helping me get the last little bit of dinner ready?”

“Not at all. Show me the way.”

Ben leads me into the kitchen where the aroma of the lasagna takes on a life of its own. I hadn’t even realized I was hungry until my stomach growls at the sight of the four-inch-thick block of pasta oozing with cheesy goodness when Ben pulls it from the oven.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

“If you wouldn’t mind chopping up the rest of the salad? I filled that bowl with Romaine lettuce, but there’s onions, carrots, tomatoes, and whatever else you can find in the fridge to put in there if you want. Help yourself and make it however you like it.”

“Sounds great.” I open the fridge and pull open the fresh produce drawers, taking out the fixings I feel would work best in an Italian dinner. “What kind of dressing do you like?”

“I think either ranch or Italian… but there are a few options in there.”

“I love how you white boys always reach for the ranch dressing.” I look over at Ben and wink.

“Us white boys, huh?” Ben asks. “I have to admit, I do like ranch dressing on pretty much anything. I even like to season my microwave popcorn with ranch seasoning.”

“I knew it,” I say triumphantly. “Ranch dressing it is.” I pour some into the bowl and toss it through, careful to evenly spread it around without making it too heavy. “How’s that look?” I tip the salad toward Ben so he can see it.

“Perfect.” He points toward the kitchen table. “The table is set. I’ll dish up the lasagna and bring it over.”

I walk over to the table, set the salad in the middle, and take a seat. I look over and watch Ben as he works in the kitchen. I enjoy seeing how he moves; careful and exact, but not slow or uncertain. The look of concentration on his sweetface makes me melt on the inside, the guy seems really kind and genuine. There’s something about this guy that just seems too perfect, too good, too right—someone I could actually see myself with for a change.

“Here you go,” Ben says, putting the plate down in front of me. “I hope you enjoy eating it as much as you did smelling it.”

“Wow, this is awesome. It’s so thick… good thing I can fit a lot in my mouth at one time.”

Ben freezes in place, fork halfway from his plate to his mouth. I realize how my comment sounded and add, “That’s what he said.”

We both start laughing. Ben puts the fork down and lays his head back and belly laughs. “You sure have a way with words, don’t you? I was trying so hard not to laugh and seem like I was the perverted one.”

“I saw you freeze like you were wanting to make a comment but wasn’t sure,” I say. “I decided to put you out of your misery right away.”

Ben wipes a tear of laughter from his eye and takes a sip of red wine as he stifles another outburst of laughter. “I haven’t laughed quite that hard in a while. Life in the ER can be… well, less than hilarious at times. I mean, don’t get me wrong… we all have a sick sense of humor at the hospital. If you didn’t laugh at some of the crazy shit you saw some nights, especially during the full moon nights, you’d go insane.”

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