32. Fans of Kale
FANS OF KALE
Connor slept a lot on Wednesday. He was leaving for the ranch on Sunday, like he’d originally planned, and until then he and Ribby decided staying at Jonathan’s apartment would be more relaxing than being in his house.
He should probably tell Jonathan they were here for four days.
His empty front hallway wasn’t going to give him nightmares, because he knew it was only an empty hallway, but he didn’t need to go there. Not today.
When Jonathan went to work, Connor stayed in bed with the toast and coffee Jonathan had brought him and started to read Rebecca. Not the vintage edition on the display stand, he’d never touch that, but the more recent 80th Anniversary edition that Jonathan claimed he didn’t care if someone handled.
Despite the casual way Jonathan had agreed to let Connor read it, he’d recognized the possibility of a slight panic around the edges of his boyfriend’s lips and found a bookmark so that he wouldn’t accidentally dog-ear pages.
Also, he showered before noon, maybe played too much with Jonathan’s skin care products and with Pawsley, and left the apartment to walk Ribby and acquire an iced latte.
Even after exchanging declarations of love and being told he could use all the fancy equipment, he wasn’t going to use Jonathan’s violently Italian espresso machine without supervision.
He did enjoy the professional stylist hair dryer, but there was a reason someone had second-handed the espresso machine, and it wasn’t because it was an intuitive piece of engineering.
He didn’t think about Tony, Monday, or sandwiches. Well, not much. Not constantly, at least.
Reading helped.
He and Hank confirmed plans to play pickleball Friday morning as usual, and Hank wasn’t the type of guy who put questions about his buddy’s public melt-down in a text, so that was chill.
And he texted with his family, too. He asked whether his mother wanted him to bring anything from a big grocery store or full-service hardware store when he came.
Really, he was busy here.
Pawsley took a break from the zoomies to sleep on Connor’s chest. Reading with a small warm weight immobilizing him became difficult, but napping became extremely easy. Ribby had also discovered that although Jonathan’s couch remained a no-go zone, sleeping on the rug next to it was ideal.
All in all, he had things to tell Jonathan if he asked what Connor had done besides move from the bed to the couch. He had plenty to say.
Eventually he heard Jonathan’s key, and then he saw his boyfriend, the man he loved who loved him back, return with groceries.
Ribby pranced over to sniff the bags.
Connor remained on the couch.
“Oh, please don’t get up to help me, somehow I’ll bump these bags through to the kitchen without knocking into things, thank you for your support.”
“I already have a task.” He gestured slowly at Pawsley, while Ribby returned to his spot on the rug. “Working very hard.”
“You are all very cute.” And Jonathan’s voice was soft enough that Connor knew it was okay to close his eyes again.
He heard the clanging of a pot or pan being removed from a cabinet, then running water and the tick of the stove starter. Ribby snorted and stood, shambling to the kitchen.
This was a nice life, right here.
Apparently Pawsley didn’t think Connor should continue to enjoy this perfection. He stood abruptly, stretched magnificently, and walked right over Connor’s face.
“Ow, ouch, shit.”
Jonathan laughed from the other side of the counter that separated the living room and kitchen.
“Brat.”
“Oh, did the tiny dumpster cat hurt the big man? And the big man has to call it names?”
“I was referring to you. For laughing at my pain.” He stood and stretched, making sure that his shirt lifted high enough to reveal his stomach. Yes, Jonathan’s eyes dropped.
Connor had found a pair of his own athletic shorts in the laundry bin, but he’d paired them with a slashed tank top that Jonathan presumably wore to clubs. Obviously when Jonathan wore it, it must fall loosely away from his chest and reveal his nipples through the large side openings.
Note to self: go to a club in Portland with Jonathan.
When Connor put the shirt on, the result was the opposite: pecs popping out due to insufficient fabric.
Jonathan was staring, so Connor inhaled and did a side bend. He could always use more stretching. “Want help?”
His boyfriend’s eyebrows wrinkled in toward the center of his nose, and he shook his head. He could watch Jonathan’s silly expressions all night. In fact, he would.
“No, dinner’s easy. Your job is to sit there and praise the chef.” He gestured with the smaller serrated knife at one of the two stools on the other side of the counter.
Connor took his seat, and Ribby rubbed against his leg and looked up with an anticipatory grin. “Silly dog. The chef is chopping veggies. And you don’t get kitchen counter food, remember.”
Across from him, Jonathan snorted, then pulled out a cutting board and a chef’s knife. Jonathan’s weren’t as sharp as Connor’s.
He should take care of that for him. Jonathan might like cooking more if his tools worked better, although he could also spend more time at Connor’s house and use those knives.
They could work together on a peach pie.
He’d make a big pot of steaming water so that they could blanch the skins, and when the kitchen got warm and humid, they’d have to take off their shirts.
Jonathan would be wearing one of his necklaces with a charm that dangled way below his throat, and his hands would be covered in peach juice.
So pretty.
He saw himself rolling out the crust in slow motion, and Jonathan looking over at him and watching his arms flex and stretch, not that rolling pie dough was particularly hard, it wasn’t laminating croissant dough, but sure, he was flexing, and Jonathan, peachy-smelling Jonathan, was watching.
Jonathan cleared his throat and gave him a look, pursed lips and raised eyebrows, and then thwacked quite loudly at a zucchini.
“Right, compliments.” He cleared his throat. “The chef is, ah, looking very handsome this evening. Like a particularly foamy IPA.”
Jonathan’s raised an eyebrow. “Why do I suspect foam is not in fact a good thing in this context? Have I heard you complain about that?”
“I’ll try again.” This was going to be fun. So much fun. “The chef’s shirt fits very well. Like, mmm, a tight sausage casing? One of the natural organic ones that gets nice and crispy on the grill.”
Jonathan’s knife hung in the air. His face looked like a man who would stand frozen in place without realizing he held a knife suspended in the air.
“Oops. Maybe that wasn’t very romantic.” He licked his lips. “The chef’s hair is particularly smooth and glossy this evening. Like a tomato skin. The Black Krim varietal, dark with hints of red at the stem, mmm.” He pursed his lips and pretended to savor a memory. “Delicious.”
“I want to be a top chef and chop furiously without looking at my knife so that I can stare at you to see what comes out next, but also make some big ass intimidating noises, but I don’t have the skills, Connor. I do not have the skills. I have to choose between glaring at you and chopping.”
“What you gonna choose?”
“You. Always you.” He set the knife next to the partially sliced zucchini.
“The chef’s ass, which I would really appreciate seeing more of, is extremely well-shaped. Like a”—being this bad at compliments wasn’t easy—“loaf of sourdough!”
“You just compared my ass to bread.” He braced on his hands and leaned across the counter. “A less confident man might think you were calling it doughy. But since I know I am not at all bread-like, I’m left wondering exactly how hungry you are?”
“Very?”
“Did you feed yourself today?”
“Maybe? Yes. Yes, I ate. Something.”
“Cookies?”
“Yes.” He wouldn’t say how many. Mostly because all was not a specific count.
“Fruit?”
Connor looked down at Ribby. “Who’s a good doggy? You’re the best doggo.”
“Clearly, I need to take matters in hand. Here.” He shoved the cutting board and a carton of cherry tomatoes across the counter. “Slice these in half and put them in this bowl.”
Connor popped one in his mouth and then picked up the knife. Both of them owned serrated tomato knives, a clear sign of compatibility. While Connor sliced, Jonathan rinsed and began to tear large green leaves. “Kale?”
“Yes. I’m making a summer food thingy.”
“I’m good with kale, but you’re expecting me to eat a thingy? I’m not sure that’s in my diet plan.”
He received another Jonathan look. The evening was going very well.
“It’s a garden pasta salad that was in one of the new cookbooks that arrived in today’s book order.” He paused and stared at Connor as if there was a punchline inbound. “From the Duchess of Sussex. Have you heard of her?”
“Meghan! Meghan has a new cookbook!” He didn’t even feel embarrassed about his thing for royalty anymore, certainly not after Jonathan’s birthday celebration and, well, everything that came after.
Because Jonathan held a knife in one hand and a zucchini in the other, he used his elbow to point at a cloth bag sitting on the second stool. “In there. I checked it out for you. Prince Archie and Princess Lily are allegedly big fans of this dish.”
He pulled the book out of the tote before Jonathan had finished speaking. “Fans of kale? They’re like five.”
Jonathan’s eyebrow made that perfect arch, reminiscent of a villain who had reformed because of the love of a good man but sometimes couldn’t help being a tiny bit wicked. “You don’t know precisely how old they are?”
Connor clutched the book to his chest and grinned. “Six and four, but I didn’t want to intimidate you with details, so I split the difference.”
“One would think they would prefer fish and chips or mac and cheese over kale at those ages, yes. And one might wonder about the balance between veracity and marketing.”