Page 27 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

But I’ve never—never—met someone who commits crimes against utensils like this.

Remy comes to stand beside me, the warmth of his arm soaking into mine. He looks over my shoulder. “Oh, just grab the first spoons you see. They’re in here somewhere.” He rummages around like some kind of serial killer, pulling out two soup spoons and one dinner spoon, all different styles.

I can deal with them being mismatched. I cannot deal with them being mixed with forks and knives like some sort of contemporary art installation that I’ve got no hope of understanding.

“Is this how you live?” I hear myself ask, turning to face him. His chest is so close it nearly brushes mine. As he frowns at me, not understanding, I realize we don’t know each other at all. I point an accusing finger to his utensil drawer. “Is this how you live?” I repeat.

“…With a silverware drawer?”

“Without a cutlery tray!” I clamp my mouth shut to keep from hissing anything else. Like a demand that he get tested for psychopathy.

Remy’s gaze circles my face, landing on my outraged glare. And the man starts laughing. He leans against the kitchen counter and tilts his head back, a big belly laugh rumbling out of him. He finally quiets down and meets my gaze. I ignore the zing of heat it causes to see a smile splitting his face. The man has no right to be this handsome.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” I exclaim, prim.

Remy’s lips are still curled in a smile, and there’s something in his eyes I don’t recognize—almost like fondness. He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Ms. Organizing Goddess.”

“Well, you failed,” I say, pulling the drawer open again to check that I wasn’t mistaken. The mess of utensils clatter as they shift forward with the movement, and I’m once again confronted with the fact that the hottest man I’ve ever met probably has bodies buried in his backyard. “I’m offended.”

He gently nudges the drawer closed and opens another one that has large cooking utensils mixed with Tupperware lids, sans containers. A bag of elastic bands slides forward and dumps a dozen beige elastics all over the other items, and Remy doesn’t seem to notice. He grabs a ladle, shakes off the elastic band clinging to its handle, and shuts the drawer.

I’m astounded. Just—horrified.

Glancing around the room, I frown at the sight of a tidy kitchen/dining/living area. On the other side of the clean kitchen peninsula are three barstools, then a rectangular table with six chairs—one of them has a little boy’s backpack slung on the back, and there’s a stack of schoolbooks on the corner of the table, but it’s otherwise clear—and a big L-shaped couch facing a TV on the wall.

His place is clean. So why—

I open the drawers again, then check one of the cabinets. Mugs and cups next to the sink—fine. Not optimal, since his coffee maker is on the other side of the kitchen, but it’s acceptable. But then the cabinet next to it has plates, bowls, and a random assortment of spices.

I close the cabinet and turn to face Remy, who’s watching me with arched brows. He’s ladled soup into a bowl, which he hands to me. “Find anything interesting?”

“I don’t understand you,” I tell him, grabbing one of the spoons he rescued from its utensil-drawer purgatory. “I’m seeing you in a whole new light.”

“I’m sensing it’s not a good one.”

“It’s a strange light,” I say, moving to sit at one of the barstools. Remy joins me, leaving one stool between us. He drinks a spoonful of soup and lets out a groan. “This might be better than your pecan pie, which is saying a lot.”

“Wait until you taste the brownies,” I say absentmindedly, eyes on the kitchen cabinets. “Grandma’s recipe.” I spin on my stool to face him. “Explain the cutlery drawer to me.”

“Well,” Remy starts, then stops to have another spoonful of soup. He chews the chunk of chicken and points the spoon at the utensil drawer. “There was a tray in there, but it was a bit too small for the drawer and too short for my knives. I got annoyed trying to fit everything in whenever I unloaded the dishwasher, so I just got rid of it.” He shrugs, nonchalant. “It works.”

“That probably depends on your definition of the word ‘works,’” I grumble.

Remy’s lip twitches as he has more soup.

I turn to my own bowl and eat for a few minutes, then glance at him. “You know they sell them at the dollar store, right? Or you can order a cutlery tray online and have it delivered within a couple of hours.”

“This is really bothering you, isn’t it?”

“I’ve just never seen anything like it,” I say. “When you unload the dishwasher, do you sort the cutlery out at all or just dump it in? How did it get so mixed up?”

“I started trying to keep them organized, but they moved around too much every time I opened the drawer. Now I just chuck the cutlery in when it’s clean.”

I shudder. It’s an involuntary, instinctual reaction.

Remy finishes his soup and gets up to ladle himself another serving. He stands on the other side of the peninsula from me and spoons some soup into his mouth, watching me. “Would it make you happy if I got a cutlery tray?”

YES, I want to scream. But I just met this man a few days ago, and it’s not my place to tell him how to organize his drawers. I shrug. “Your cutlery drawer has nothing to do with me.”

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