His surprised expression makes me grin. I get the feeling he’s not used to being called out.
“Anything else, Mr. Territorial?” I tease.
“Doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“The fact that I shower in a gym? Of course it does, but it’s only temporary. I didn’t choose this living situation—”
“I mean, you’re not bothered by me being territorial of you?”
Oh. I blanch and think about that for a moment. “No. Not really.”
A wide smile graces his face, making his dimple appear. “Good. Now, let’s make some brittle.” He motions for me to walk ahead of him.
He heads to the sink and washes his hands, and then I do the same and meet him at the counter, where I have my ingredients laid out.
I lift the heavy four-quart saucepan and place it on the stove over medium heat.
Sebastian rolls up his sleeves and starts grabbing the ingredients I dictate to him.
“One and a half cups of sugar,” I say and watch him measure out the precise amount.
Next, he adds the water and corn syrup as I direct him, “Stir until the sugar dissolves, and then we’ll raise the heat.”
He pays close attention to the job at hand to make sure he’s got the hang of it before he turns to me. “What was your grandmother like?” he asks as he stirs.
“Funny. Glamorous. Loved to tell stories of her days in Manhattan when she danced at the Copa.”
“She was a New Yorker?”
“Born and raised. My mom too. My grandparents relocated to Pennsylvania when Mom met Dad in college and they decided to marry and settle here.”
“Family that stays together is important.”
I sense a tiny bit of remorse in his words. “Do you see your parents often?”
“Not as often as I’d like, but I do. They live in Connecticut, and it’s only a few hours’ drive. I try to see them once a month, plus the holidays, and they usually come down this way for my birthday.”
“When’s that?”
“The last week of July.”
“Ahh. So, that makes you a Leo?” I say as I get the nuts ready.
“I hope that’s a good thing.” He grins, unsure of the question, which is adorable on him.
“Very actually. It means you’re dedicated with high ideals and inspired views on life.” I laugh at how high and mighty I make him sound. “About a year ago, I was toying with the idea of making zodiac-themed chocolate boxes. Thought they’d be fun birthday gifts.”
“That’s a great idea. What did you envision for the Leo?”
“At the time, I was thinking something tried and true, like a chocolate mousse truffle.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Now, I’m thinking it has to be sophisticated, like a luxurious, soft caramel, blended with gourmet sea salt, nestled inside a dark chocolate shell.” With a deep exhale, I look up at him and see the quirk of his mouth as he looks back at me with a raised brow. I clear my throat and get back to work. “So, what do you and your parents do on this annual birthday trip?”
He laughs lightly and looks down at the pot, continuing to stir. “They spend the week here before Mom has to be back on campus for freshman orientation. They love the museums, and Dad always visits colleagues over at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Dad and I catch a ball game, and then Mom has us wait in line at Geno’s for cheesesteaks because she says they’re the best. I think that’s the only time all year I eat a cheesesteak.”
“Same. Not for any real reason though. But I must disagree with your mother. I’d go with Pat’s cheesesteaks all the way.”
“I have a very important question to ask, and this could be a deal-breaker for our friendship.”
I lean back and feign seriousness. “A question that could call the whole thing off. Well, Mr. Blake, I’d best be careful with my response.”
He stands tall and asks as seriously as possible, “How do you take your cheesesteak?”
“Oh, man. I already know this is not gonna go well. A Connecticut boy is not gonna order it right. I’m a without onions, wit’ Whiz girl.”
He slaps his chest like a dagger was just pushed into it. “Cheez Whiz on a sandwich—that’s disgusting.”
I laugh. “It kind of is, but it’s the way I grew up. Probably why I don’t really eat them. How do you order yours?”
“Provolone and caramelized onions.”
I make a face of disgust. “You even order it like a preppy. Just say wit’ onions.” He laughs, and I follow. “Shame we can’t be friends anymore.”
“Agreed. We’re just gonna have to find something else to be to each other.” The twinkle in his eye is undeniable, as is the subtle, flirtatious nature of his words.
I slap my hands together and dictate to him his next instructions. “Peanuts, butter, and salt.”
Watching Sebastian cook is charming. I can see he is comfortable in a kitchen and is incredibly controlled with every action. When I tell him the candy must come to a golden-brown color, he analyzes it with purpose. For someone who behaves the same way in the kitchen, I find this level of focus to be a turn-on.
We work together through the next steps of the recipe. His fingers lightly swipe my arm when we add baking soda. My hip pushes against his when I add in some vanilla. Somehow, I wind up in front of him with his arms around mine when it’s time to pour the brittle into the pan. When my back brushes up against his chest, I get a zing right through my body.
While it cools, we take Lady Featherington outside and play fetch with her in the alley.
“Do you get to play a lot with Duke?” I ask as Sebastian throws the ball to her again.
“That rascal has a ton of energy. He only gets walked three times a day though.”
“She’ll be the same once I get my own place.”
He looks back at the door to my kitchen and grimaces. “I can’t believe you live here.”
“Pathetic?” I ask, not liking how I’ll feel if he agrees.
“Shows gumption. I’d like to see you in a better place though. I know some people in real estate who can help you get a good rental. You can put that three grand to good use.”
“Thanks, but I’ll skip the fee and try looking by owner first. When my loan comes in, I have big plans for the money, and a high rental is not ideal.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear of anything.”
I point a finger. “And no pro bono realtors. I’m onto you, Blake.”
“Damn. That was definitely my plan.”
I roll my eyes, and we go back inside, where I pour him a glass of wine. We spend the next half hour breaking brittle, stretching it thin, while laughing over jokes and tales of our grandmothers who each seem to have had their own unique ways of smothering us. Mine with hugs, pickles, weekly bingo nights, and paintings of clowns—I have seven. His with kisses, walking him to and from school—even in high school—and knitted afghans, of which he has twelve.
I grab takeout from the restaurant next door, and we eat while the brittle cools. I open another bottle of wine, and we talk about our favorite things to do in the city. I share my fascination with the rowing clubs along Schuylkill River. I can watch the crews come out of Boathouse Row and lose a whole afternoon, enjoying them go up and down the river.