More, Please(6)

“Is that all, sir?” the driver asked Hunter.

“Yes, Mr. Portsmouth. You can go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I crossed in front of Hunter onto the sidewalk and up the path to his front door. After opening the door, he waited for me to enter in front of him.

“Did you eat?” he asked once we were in the foyer and the door closed behind him.

He put my bag at the base of the stairs. Soft light illuminated the hallway, enhancing his handsome features. The sweet scent of flowers from the arrangement on a small table tickled my nose.

His eyes delved into mine. “I haven’t had dinner. I called ahead and had Mrs. Foster prepare something. Are you hungry?”

“I’d be hungry for Mrs. Foster’s food anytime. If she’s cooking, I’m eating.”

“Such faith in her after only sampling her pot roast.” He put his hand on the small of my back and gently applied pressure, having me walk toward the kitchen.

“It was a really good pot roast.”

“I take it you don’t cook.”

“I cook. Kinda. But I don’t cook, if you know what I mean.”

“I see.”

He probably didn’t.

He directed me through the richly decorated and spacious house and into the kitchen. He left me standing by a small table in the corner while he retrieved two covered plates from the oven. He set them on the center island, but then hesitated. “Would you like to eat in the dining room…?”

“Oh.” I looked out through the archway, remembering the large, somewhat sterile dining room. “Can we just eat here?” I motioned to the worn table next to me.

“Of course.” Suddenly fluid again, Hunter moved around the kitchen, gathering silverware, glasses, and wine with economic motions. He set two places on the table, opened the wine, set the glasses, and then retrieved the dome-topped plates. He set each down and stood behind a chair, looking at me.

“Are we going to say the Pledge of Allegiance, or…”

His brow crinkled. “Would you like to sit?” He pulled the chair back a fraction more.

“Oh, right. Sorry, I didn’t expect the whole gentlemanly treatment at a kitchen table.” I moved in front of the chair and sat as he pushed it in for me.

“If not here, where?” He removed the domes from the plates and set them on the island. I looked over the lasagna in the center of the plate. The smell wafted toward me, absolutely divine. He then poured the wine before taking his seat.

“It’s just a lot of extravagance for a kitchen table. I’m not really sure what comes next.” I laughed, glancing at him to take my cues.

“Manga!” With a grin, he picked up his knife and fork.

“What? You’re not going to put my napkin in my lap for me? What kind of host are you…” I faked being put out as I slid my napkin out from under my utensils.

“I’m going to enjoy this, I already know it.” I placed a morsel on my tongue. The flavors exploded, so much better than most of the restaurants I’d ever eaten at. A symphony in my mouth.

“Oh man,” I said with closed eyes, just taking a moment. I needed a little quiet time to process how good this lasagna was. “She’s a pro. No two ways about it.”

When I opened my eyes, intent on getting another bite into my mouth as quickly as possible, I noticed Hunter staring at me. He hadn’t taken a bite yet.

I gave my signature flush. “Sorry.” I slowed my movements, lest he think I was a savage. “I haven’t eaten this well for a long time. Not since my father cooked for me.”

I chewed the next mouthful slowly. To try and dislodge his stare, I motioned at the table. “You eat here a lot, huh? Not at the big table?”

“I do, yes. It’s usually just me, and it’s usually out of economy.”

“What do you mean, out of economy?”

He used both knife and fork at all times, something common Americans didn’t. I generally switched hands for the fork when I needed to cut.

I eyed my knife, wondering if I should adopt the practice.

“I eat to live. I lift weights for fitness. I work to disappear from reality.” He took a sip of his wine as his eyes lost focus. He glanced away. “You shame me, Livy.”

“What for?” I asked around my full mouth. I really needed to go to charm school.

His expression turned uncomfortable. “You…live.” He nodded toward my plate. “I see how you’re enjoying your dinner. The pleasure you’re taking in it. I see the passion when you work on Bruce’s project and know that, while I’m good at what I do, I don’t feel that passion. I’ve…never really lived, I don’t think. Not like you do.”