I decide to torture him a little because apparently he likes to do it to me. I squeeze my shoulders together and lean further onto the counter, the movement accentuating my large chest and allowing him to see almost straight down the V-neck sweater I have on.
“Jami?” I call to him across the island, where he’s still staring at my chest.
“Mmmm,” he says, not looking away.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re having for dinner?” I singsong, standing upright from my position.
“Uhm. Yeah,” he answers finally, visibly shaking off the lust in his eyes.
“Well…” I prompt again.
“Right. Dinner.” He clears his throat before continuing, and I do a little happy dance in my head—I can get under his skin too. “We’re going to make, honey-tarragon carrots sautéed in butter with boiled baby potatoes, cream-cheese-and-sundried-tomato-stuffed breaded chicken breast, and grilled asparagus.” He rushes out the sentence in almost a pant.
“That sounds amazing. Should we start now?”
“Let’s,” he mumbles, still seeming dazed.
Cooking dinner was actually really fun. Jami walked me through how to do everything, and aside from sticking my fingers into a slimy chicken breast, I loved every second of it. The food turned out amazing.
We are seated side by side at his island table, finishing up what is left on our plates.
“Do you want more?” Jami asks, noting my empty plate.
I shake my head. “I wish, but I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.” I would have worn my stretchy pants if I thought I’d be eating this much.
“Well, I hope you left room for pie.” He winks as he gets up to take our dishes to the kitchen.
“Have mercy on my waistline, Jami. Please,” I beg him, putting a hand over my stomach.
“You’re perfect,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder as he loads the dishwasher. “But I’ll give you a break before dessert. I’d prefer you actually ate my pie instead of just looking at it,” he teases.
“I’d prefer that too.” I laugh. “So where do you work?” I ask him, looking around. I imagine making guitars would be kind of messy, but his house seems spotless.
“My shop is in the garage. Do you want to see it?” He seems shy about it and that shocks me. He’s not shy about anything really.
“I’d love too,” I say as I stand up.
He leads me back towards the front of the house, but instead of going out the front door this time, we go into a door to the left. It takes us through an adorable mud room/laundry room before another door leads us into the garage. When he flicks on the light, my eyes take in everything. There are tools strewn across a workbench and different kinds of wood piled up around the room. Some finished and a few half-finished guitars hang from racks on the ceilings and walls. It’s an organized chaos, and I notice that it seems awfully warm for a garage.
“It’s warm in here,” I state, stepping farther into the room.
“I had the garage insulated and it’s heated,” he says. “It’s not good for the wood to get really cold.”
“Hmmm,” I answer absentmindedly as I run my hand over a guitar on the table in the center of the room. “Do you use different wood for everything?”
He comes up behind me, putting his larger hand on top of my smaller one on the guitar. “I usually use a few different types on one guitar,” he says. It’s hard to concentrate on my thoughts with his body pressed up against mine.
“What kind is this one?” I’m genuinely interested. I know nothing about guitars, really—let alone how to make one.
He picks up my hand with his and drags it along the smooth wood at the sides. “This is Amazon Rosewood. I use it for the back and the sides,” he says into my ear from behind me. He moves my hand again. “This is the soundboard. Do you see it?” I nod but don’t say anything. “It’s made from Englemann Spruce wood.” He lets go of my hand, moving his to rest on the outside of my hip.
“It’s beautiful.” I sigh, continuing to drag my fingers over the smooth wood. “They’re works of art, Jami.”
“They’re not bad,” he says from behind me.
I turn around in his arms to look at him. “Don’t belittle the work you do,” I tell him, and his gaze drops down to the floor. I put my hands on either side of his scruffy face and lift it so he’s looking at me. “They are amazing. I don’t know anyone else who could create something so beautiful. Be proud of yourself,” I whisper, the pads of my thumbs slipping over his jawline. “I’m proud of you.”