Page 88 of Perfect Mess

“Here you go.” Gary pulled out another beer for me. I stepped toward him to grab it. At the same time, Gary stepped forward to hand it to me. We ended up face to face, closer, I think, than either of us had intended. We both just stood there, staring. His jaw ticked. That warm and fuzzy feeling bubbled up again in my nether regions.

I took the bottle. “Thanks.”

He didn’t move.

I didn’t move either.

We were so close I smelled lemons and oranges on his breath, remnants from the SourPaws we were drinking. In the air all around us, I smelled garlic. A pan of chopped garlic simmered in olive oil on the stove. “Are you expecting a vampire attack?” I asked.

“You never know,” said Gary. “I like to be prepared, just in case. One of those Eagle Scout things, I suppose.”

We were still standing face to face. Somehow, our bodies drifted closer. I took another sip of my SourPaw to occupy my lips, just in case they got any impromptu urges. Looking over at the display of ingredients, I said, “That’s quite the layout.”

“I thought we could do it together,” said Gary. His eyes twinkled in the glow of the kitchen lighting, hinting at something more than cooking.Or was I just imagining things?I took another sip of SourPaw in a feeble attempt to quench the fire building in my tummy.

“Come. I’ll show you what to do.”

* * *

Gary laidthe chicken breasts on a cutting board, then I whacked them with a mallet.

“I’m pretty sure it’s already dead,” he said, leaning over my shoulder.

Once flattened and tenderized, Gary dipped the pulverized chicken in an egg wash, and I coated it in flour. Gary sprinkled on the bread crumbs. I sprinkled on the Parmesan cheese. Gary added salt. I added pepper.

“Is now a good time to add the marjoram?” I asked.

With the chicken breaded and seasoned, Gary fried each piece in oil. Then I placed each piece in a baking dish. Gary spooned homemade tomato sauce on each piece of chicken. I added a slice of mozzarella cheese. Gary added fresh basil and the sautéed garlic. I sprinkled on more Parmesan cheese.

“Now can I add the marjoram?” The exhaust fan from the oven must have blown a wisp of hair across my forehead because, before I knew what was happening, Gary reached up and brushed it away from my eyes. The gentle touch of his fingertips on my skin made the entire length of my arms break out in goosebumps.

Gary stepped away from the pan and smiled. “Knock yourself out.” I’m not sure Gary’s recipe actually called for marjoram, but he was kind enough to humor me.

When we finished assembling the ingredients, I had to admit, the final product looked pretty darn good. We still had to bake it, of course, but I could tell it was going to be the best chicken Parmesan ever.

“Not bad,” said Gary. “Not bad at all.”

“We actually make a pretty good team,” I said. “If only we were this good at setting you up with Janet.”

Gary froze. “Right,” he said, finally. Avoiding eye contact, he used a wooden spoon to reposition the chicken in the baking dish, then placed it in the oven. “If only.”

He took another sip of SourPaw.

Then another after that.

As Gary put the oven mitt back on the counter, I tried to get a bead on what he was thinking, but his face was impossible to read. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought that Gary wasgladour plans had fallen short. Gladhe wasn’t with Janet.

Stupid Karen. It had to be her. Maybe there was something between Gary and Karen, after all. But then, as I thought about it some more, that wouldn’t explain why Gary was going along with my set-him-up-with-Janet plan. Spending all of his free time with me just to get with someone he wasn’t interested in didn’t make sense.Unless …

No.

No way.

Absolutely not.

Surely Gary wasn’t just playing along because … I couldn’t even finish the thought. Ever since the day I hired him to paint Aunt Catherine’s house, it had been one disaster after another. Surely he could see that he and I didn’t fit. Surely, he knew that anything beyond our current business arrangement would be an impossibility.

“We should make some pasta to go with the chicken,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you prefer penne or linguine?” I filled up a pot of water and set it on the stove.

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