Page 12 of Cool for the Summer

I grab my baseball cap, sunglasses, phone, and wallet, and carry my shoes downstairs, enjoying the novelty of bare feet on the cool hardwood floors. I rarely go barefoot in the city, even in my own apartment.

My plan for the day, such as it is, is to take Pete’s car into town for breakfast and a trip to the grocery store. Maybe Beck wants to add a few things to the list, or even come with me.

Provided he’s awake and functional.

Picturing Beck rumpled and sleepy, I’m stunned by the sight that meets me in the kitchen when I walk in, Beck at the big six-burner stove with his back to me, working on something emitting an appetizing smell. He’s gotten the shorts memo, too, and is wearing dark blue ones that hug his rear and stop just beneath the full globes of his ass, showing off pale, lightly muscled legs that move in time to the strains of classical music coming from the built-in wall speakers. He has on a loose sky-blue tank top that exposes bony shoulders. The back of his neck is bare, and I’m hit with an unexpected desire to run my nose along the shorn hair there, to find out what he smells like and how soft his skin is.

No. Friendly thoughts only.

“What’s all this?”

Beck whirls around holding a spatula like a weapon. “Oh, you startled me.” He leans over and hits a button on his phone. The music stops.

I can differentiate scents now, something sweet and cinnamon in the pan on the stove and the welcome bitter aroma of coffee coming from a machine on the counter by the window.

“You’re cooking?”

“I like to cook,” Beck says, smiling. “Didn’t I mention that before? And bake. And they might have a Nancy Meyers-esque kitchen, but Jack and Pete barely have the basics, so I’m definitely going to the store today. I started a list if you want to add anything. Oh, and I got the coffee machine figured out. Help yourself. Do you like cinnamon? I wanted to make waffles, but I didn’t have the right ingredients, so this is just French toast with my own little twist. It’s almost ready. They do have real maple syrup at least, the brutes.”

I stare at Beck until I’m sure the flow of words has come to a stop. “So you’re feeling better,” I say.

Beck laughs. “So much better. The bed down here is amazing. Cleo and I got up around six. I am a new man.”

“Six?” I feel vaguely guilty for getting up late, even though eight is barely sleeping in by my usual standards. I glance at Cleo, who’s gnawing on some kind of complicated dog toy in her bed. “Thanks.”

“No problem. She’s an angel. But I think she needs to go out again. Maybe you could take her while I get the food on the table. Scrambled eggs okay?”

I’m still slightly baffled by this new energetically domestic Beck. But I’m not going to turn down a home-cooked breakfast, especially one that smells this good.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” I slip on my shoes and open the French door that leads from the kitchen to the patio and the fenced-in backyard beyond. Cleo automatically trots to the door at the sound, and the two of us go outside. She jogs around the big lawn—they have two acres, Pete told me once, about an acre for the house, garage, and the yard, a rectangle of lawn abutting the generous stone patio, with the fenced-in pool off to the side. The other acre is deciduous woods that surround the house on three sides, shielding it from the neighbors, at least during the leafy months.

Pete’s done well for himself. I’m not exactly jealous. But I am a little surprised at how good it feels to be here, pulling fresh air into my lungs, the only sounds the snuffling of Cleo in the grass as she locates a good spot to do her morning business and the ambient noise of birds and the occasional car passing by on Wild Rose Lane. I have the day ahead of me to do whatever I want, starting with breakfast waiting inside. I shake off the feeling that things are too good to be true.

Cleo squats and I chuckle. That’s the reality check I need. It’s a beautiful morning, but there’s still shit to pick up. I grab the scooper Pete showed me yesterday and take care of the mess.

I throw a tennis ball a couple of times for Cleo, but she seems to lose interest just when I fear I might pass out if I don’t get an infusion of calories. She follows me inside without a fuss and I wash my hands at the big white porcelain kitchen sink.

“Perfect timing,” Beck says sunnily as he emerges from the walk-in pantry with a glass jar of dark brown liquid. Maple syrup. Probably from some tiny local farm.

There are two places set at the island, complete with two plates filled with fluffy-looking scrambled eggs, golden French toast, and the last of the fruit from the wedding.

“No bacon, but I put it on the list,” Beck says. “You do like bacon, don’t you?”

“Do I look like someone who doesn’t like bacon?”

“I don’t know; aren’t actors all healthy and stuff?” Beck asks as he takes the right-hand seat.

I have a sip of the coffee Beck already poured for me and take the other tall, dark blue leather barstool. “Excellent coffee.”

“It took me a second to figure out the machine, but glad you like it.”

“And I do try to keep in shape,” I say, picking up my fork. “But bacon is a basic human necessity. Though I usually go for turkey bacon if I have a choice.”

“You did order bacon for me yesterday,” Beck muses. “You probably wouldn’t have done that if you were vegan or something.”

“Not vegan. Though I do like vegetables.”

“Vegetables I can get behind. You want anything in particular?” Beck nods at the pad of paper on the other side of the island and I drag it toward me while I eat. The French toast is crispy-soft and perfumed with vanilla, I think, while the eggs are light and perfectly salted. I try not to inhale them as I read Beck’s list, printed in neat block letters, a far cry from my own hasty scribble.

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