“Oh, I know.” He chuckles. “Also.” He leans in and whispers, “Sometimes, I listen just to hear you say my name.” I don’t know what to say to that, so instead, I just take another gulp of wine. “Do you want to sit by the pool while I barbecue?”
“No,” I say, getting up. “I’m going to set the table and make myself useful.”
“Well, gorgeous, if you want to make yourself useful …” he says, and I know I set myself up for something. “You can stand next to me in a bikini and feed me grapes while I cook for you.”
I can’t help the laughter that escapes me. “But if you feel more comfortable with setting the table, that is good, too.” He grabs the plate of meat and the bowl of veggies and walks out toward the grill.
“Where do you want to eat?” I ask right before he starts the grill.
“Wherever you want, gorgeous.” He places the veggies on the counter next to the grill.
“You know I have a name, right?” I ask. “It’s two syllables. Lay-la.”
He laughs. “So is gor-geous.” Shrugging, he says, “So same.”
Shaking my head, I walk back into the house and go to the kitchen, opening drawers to find a tablecloth and then the plates and utensils. I carry the stuff outside, putting it down on the white round table right next to the grill. “Is it okay if we eat outside?”
“More than okay,” he says, opening the grill lid and walking away from the smoke that comes out. “If you want, we can play music outside.”
“It’s totally up to you,” I say, setting the table for the two of us. “Should I bring out the salad that you left on the counter?”
“Yes,” he says, and when I walk in and then walk back out, he has the food on the table.
“I didn’t know how you liked your steak, so I made it medium, and if you need it cooked more, then I can put it back on the grill,” he says as I place the salad in the middle of the table.
“That should be perfect,” I say, looking down at the food he grilled. The steaks look perfect. He has baked potatoes, some asparagus, and then some veggies in a tin platter that he cooked on the grill, and I’m shocked he did all this. I don’t think anyone has actually cooked me a meal before.
“Where do you sit?” I ask. He comes over to the table with two bottles of water that he got out of the fridge that is under the counter. He pulls out one of the chairs and waits for me to sit down. “Thank you,” I say, trying to ignore the heavy beating of my heart and the dryness in my mouth.
“You forgot your wine?” he says, putting the bottles of water on the table. I can’t say anything to him, so I just nod my head. He walks back into the kitchen, and I see him coming out with the bottle of wine and my glass, but he is also carrying a glass bowl under his arm. He puts the bottle down, then grabs the bowl and sets it down. The glass bowl has folded paper inside it, and I watch him put down the glass and then pour me some more wine. He walks over to his chair and sits down. “Serve yourself,” he says. I grab my fork and place a steak on my plate and then serve him one, too. He grabs the veggies and places some on his plate and then hands it over to me.
“Okay, the suspense is killing me,” I say when I grab my fork and knife and cut into the steak.
“What’s with the bowl?” I look at him and take a bite of the steak, the meat melting on my tongue.
“That,” he says, grabbing his own fork and knife and cutting into his steak and popping a piece into his mouth, “is the question bowl.”
“A question bowl?” I ask, taking another bite of the steak.
“It’s to get to know each other,” he says, and I look at him, shocked that he set this up. “Figured this is one way to get to know you.” He winks at me. I have never had a guy try this hard. I have never had a guy want to try this hard. And before he even says the next line, I already know that I’m in uncharted territory. “And