Page 48 of It's a Date (Again)

“These are nice,” I say, running my fingers over the thick denim-like fabric.

“Can I help you put it on?” His voice is low, and his rosy cheeks give away the fact that he’s clearly nervous. We’ve had dates before, but maybe he’s always been nervous like this. After all, he’s never been in a serious relationship.

I remove my jean jacket and toss it onto a stool. “Nice shirt,” he says with a chuckle.

I glance at the string of text plastered along my graphic tee and back at him. “Why are you laughing?”

“Your shirt. It’s fromThe Office, the TV show.”

I glance at it again and laugh. “I thought I was into rabies charities or something.”

Still chuckling, he loops the apron over my head. I turn so my back is facing him. Nash ties and adjusts the leather straps, making sure it’s a snug fit. His fingers graze my lower back through the T-shirt, and a tingle runs up my spine.

“There you are.”

I turn to face him. We lock eyes but he looks away first, clasping his hands together and scanning the kitchen. “All right, burgers. Come with me.”

Nash gathers the ingredients from the walk-in cooler, calling out each one as he hands some over and collects the rest. Ground beef. White American cheese. Yellow American cheese. Brioche buns. Red onions. Pickles. Garlic. Mayo. Olive oil. Lemon juice. Potatoes.

“Now what?” I ask, placing my armful of supplies on the metal table. He plops his down too.

“First, the fries. They take the longest. I’ll scrub and slice up the potatoes. Why don’t you form four beef patties, each about half the size of the palm of your hand?”

I nod and pull ground beef from the container, forming each hunk into balls.

Nash prepares the french fries. “Did you like the soup?” He glances over at me while continuing to rock the knife back and forth. I’m nervous he’ll cut himself, but he never comes close. He’s good with his hands. My cheeks start to blaze imagining what else he can do with those hands.

“Yeah, very much. It was delicious. Thank you.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he says with a smile, dropping the fries into the fryer. They sizzle in the hot oil. “Six minutes on the fries.” His voice is commanding and in control. It’s like I’m getting a glimpse of Chef Nash cooking up a hot dish on a Friday night, and I like it a lot. The fries aren’t the only things sizzling right now.

He joins me at the table, his body standing just a few inches behind me. I fight the urge to back up into him. “Doing great,” he says as I finish up the last patty. I can feel his hot breath on my skin. Nash turns on the griddle and then peels an onion with ease. The outside shell just falls right off, and I imagine my clothes doing the same. “Can you cut two thin slices?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I pull a knife from a block and carefully slice through the onion.

Nash moves like lightning, slicing cheese and rough-chopping garlic. I can’t imagine how fast he moves during a dinner rush on a weekend or in other places ... I shake the thought away, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Who would have thought watching a man cook could be so sexy? He pulls out a small mixing bowl and adds the garlic, mayo, fresh ground pepper, and lemon juice.

“All done,” I say.

Nash slides the bowl to me. “Can you mix that?”

I nod, getting right to work, but my gaze keeps going back to him. He drops the four balls of ground beef onto the griddle. They sizzle as he smashes each ball with a spatula, thinning them out as much as he can. The way Nash commands the kitchen is incredibly hot. It’s like he finds his confidence here. I could literally watch him all day.

“How’s this?” I ask, tilting the bowl of pale-yellow sauce toward him.

He sticks his pinkie in it and brings it to his mouth, licking it. “It’s perfect.”

“What is it?”

“Garlic aioli for the burgers and fries. Here, taste it.” He dips his pointer finger into it and holds it up. I stare at him and then bring his finger to my mouth, sucking the aioli.

“Yum,” I say, looking up through my lashes at him.

His cheeks flush again, and I think he might kiss me, but he wipes his hand on his apron and gets back to work at the stove, flipping the patties and toasting the buns. There’s a real shyness to Nash that I find both frustrating and sexy, and I wonder when/if he’ll break out of that shell.

“Can you pull the fries?”

“Yeah,” I say, although I’m not entirely sure what that means.

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