12. People I Think Nathan Has Slept With

TWELVE

#4 Nobell Prize Barbie. If their isnt one there shoud be.

Nathan peered around the kitchen like he was expecting a bomb to go off. To be fair, it sort of looked like one already had. An effect that got…worse…the longer I looked with him.

Okay, so I had used almost every pot hanging over the island to make the sauce, cook the pasta, toast the pine nuts, and make a few other things that really didn't pan out. Broiling vegetables is actually kind of hard, okay? They catch fire in like a second.

Two pans were still on the stove while the others were piled in a sink along with the failed attempts at other side dishes. The white marble counters were, yes, littered with the ends of carrots, onions, tomatoes, and herbs along with too many utensils to count, several used bowls, and a variety of spices that had spilled when I was hurrying to measure them. Add a good amount of sauce splattered around for luck, and it was basically my preschool finger painting.

So I wasn't the cleanest cook in the world. I never said I wasn't going to clean it all up after.

"I cooked," I told him again, mustering my very brightest, "don't kill me" smile. "I thought it would be nice for you to come home to a hot meal instead of those premade things in the fridge."

Over the last few weeks, I'd learned that Nathan's meal planning was as regimented as the rest of his life. On Sunday, a box of prepackaged meals arrived, along with an accounting of their nutritional content and macros. They sat in the fridge in stacks, labeled with mealtime and ingredients, alongside a water filter and the cream he used for his coffee. The only vice in this man's life, so far as I could tell, was the scotch he barely drank at Opal every Thursday night.

Nathan's gym bag fell to the floor as he continued staring around the kitchen. The longer he went without replying, the more my cheeks heated, and it wasn't from the heat coming off the stove.

It really was a mess, but until now, I'd been sort of proud of it. This honestly might have been the first meal I'd ever made, top to bottom, all by myself, without Lea jumping in to dice the onions for me, Nonna scrubbing pots behind me, or Marie reaching over me to handle something on the stove. And I'd done it for him.

But Nathan couldn't know that. All he saw right now was the disaster.

And now all I saw was the mountain of things to clean up.

I swallowed. "Nathan?"

He finally looked back at me. And maybe a little bit of tension fell from his big shoulders. A little.

"It's just a thank you for taking me in," I said as I gave the sauce another good stir. "I noticed that most of your meals come from that service, but, come on, that's never as good as anything home cooked, am I right? It's giving lonely bachelor. I thought you might enjoy a change."

I was babbling, yes. Filling the space because he still hadn't said anything else.

At least he wasn't staring at the mess anymore. Now, he was just staring at me. Was I wearing something inappropriate? I glanced down at one of my favorite "at home" outfits: baggy black pants tied loosely around my hips and a vintage Lisa Frank T-shirt cropped above my navel. A couple of chains around my neck, a pair of black hoops, and some beaded bracelets around one wrist.

I'm all right there, I thought. He'd seen way more of me when I was dancing.

Maybe he was staring because I was almost as messy as the kitchen. My shirt was speckled with sauce, along with some water stains that wet the hem.

"You…have a bit of sauce…" Nathan stuttered as he pointed to my neck.

I turned in a circle but obviously couldn't locate something on my neck.

"Get it, will you?" I asked, skipping over to him with the sauce spoon in one hand and a dishrag in the other.

Nathan glanced around the room like someone was going to save him from the task. Eventually, though, he took the rag from my hand and tentatively dabbed it on my neck, just above my collarbone, then drew the wet cloth up to my jaw. His fingers lingered there for a moment, and he seemed transfixed by the spot.

I shivered when his knuckle brushed the sensitive skin under my chin.

"Thanks," I murmured, suddenly aware of his characteristically clean scent, now overlaid with a bit of sweat from his workout. Damn, he smelled good. It was all I could do not to lick him in exactly the same spot where he'd just touched me.

I wondered if it would taste like salt.

He still didn't speak.

God, he was so horrified he'd completely lost the ability.

I turned away and grabbed the two pasta bowls I'd set out to serve things up, conscious of the fact that Nathan still hadn't stopped staring.

Something was definitely wrong. In about five seconds, he was going to return to earth and kick me out for causing such mayhem. He was going to look around at what I'd done to his kitchen, possibly his whole apartment, and tell me the deal was off and he'd be better off learning social skills from the silent dude in the elevator.

The only way to fix it was to feed him. Nonna's sauce could fix anything.

"I really am sorry about the mess," I said as I started dishing up pasta, that admittedly looked kind of like overcooked glue, into the bowls.

"The mess?" When I turned around, Nathan blinked, then shook his head like he was falling out of a daydream. "I don't care about the mess. It's—Rita will clean it up when she comes in the morning."

I frowned at the mention of the housekeeper, who seemed to come and go from the apartment like a phantom, usually during the time I was asleep or at work. "No, don't make her do that. I'll take care of it."

Nathan looked unsure. But it was one thing to pay a housekeeper to do regular dusting and cleaning when the apartment was picked up. He couldn't know how it felt to be taken advantage of that way, but I did. And so did every other woman in my family.

"I'll do it," I said again as I spooned some of the sauce over each bowl. "How many meatballs?"

I bent down to remove a tray of meatballs from the oven. Okay, maybe they weren't quite as juicy as Nonna's usually looked, but they didn't smell awful. I bet they were all right.

Nathan eyed them suspiciously when I set them on the island next to the bowls. "Ah, two is fine."

"Are you sure?" I asked as I gave myself the same. "My dance instructor always told me to eat extra protein when we were building muscle. Did you lift or run today?"

Last night, Nathan had randomly told me his workout schedule, but I couldn't remember the order of things. Just that it was three days of sprint training followed by calisthenics to protect his joints and three of the heavier strength training that were responsible for his bulk.

Nathan was still studying his bowl. "I lifted." He looked like he was regretting it. "Three, then."

I dished up three, then scooped some of the carrots I'd baked onto each plate and grated Parmesan over them and the pasta, ignoring when some fell on the floor. I'd get it later.

With one finger, I scooped up an errant bit of sauce on the edge of my plate and sucked it off. Then I looked up to find Nathan staring again, this time at my finger as I pulled it out of my mouth.

Shit. Talk about bad manners.

"Er, sorry," I mumbled. "Hey, go wash up. I'll meet you in the dining room."

He started again but followed my orders without a word, mumbling something that sounded like, "Stop acting like an idiot."

I couldn't deny it hurt a little. But it was a fair critique.

When we met in the dining room, Nathan's face was red and slightly damp, like he'd washed it along with his hands. He offered a short nod as he took his seat at the table, which I'd set with napkins, silverware, and even a candle for good measure.

"Grace?" I asked, holding out my hand.

He took it but looked surprised. "I didn't realize you were religious."

I shrugged. "I'm not, really. But it's not a home-cooked meal if you don't say grace. Trust me, my nonna would approve." Quickly, I bowed my head to murmur the short prayer I'd heard literally every night of my life: "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."

When I looked up, Nathan was still watching me, but now with a warmth I hadn't seen before. Something like fondness.

"Just a habit," I said, feeling oddly shy myself now.

God, he probably thought I was a baby. Saying my prayers like a little kid. I couldn't explain why I'd done it. It just felt right.

A brown brow lifted. "Next time, I'll join you."

I grinned. And to my shock, Nathan grinned right back.

"Buon appetito," I said in my admittedly poor Italian. If I was going to channel Nonna, I figured I should do it right. Or as right as I could manage.

"It's—" he stopped.

"What?" I asked.

He looked down at the steaming plate in front of him. "It's been a very long time since someone made me dinner. Thank you."

I poured some of his favorite sparkling water—he liked the expensive stuff that came in green bottles—into the wineglasses I'd set out. "It's nothing fancy. Just spaghetti and meatballs with roasted carrots. I did sparkling water since you don't keep any wine in the house."

"Hypertension runs in my family," Nathan said as he accepted the glass. "I don't actually drink very much."

"I know. You barely touch your scotch at the bar."

At that, he frowned just as he was about to dip his fork into his food. "Then why do you bring it?"

I shrugged. "Because you always order it. Why do you always order it?"

Nathan shrugged back. "It just seems like what people do."

I nodded. "I get that."

And the weird thing was, I did. Sometimes I felt like life was a choice between acting like myself and pissing everyone off or doing what they wanted and feeling like an empty mask. In his own way, I had a feeling that Nathan felt the same.

"I'll make you something without alcohol next time," I said. "Perrier. I think we have it."

"With lime," Nathan said as that half smile emerged again. "Please."

We shared small, hidden smiles before we both had to look away. Why, I wasn't sure. But it was almost too much to handle.

"Can I ask you something?" I asked.

"Sure." Nathan looked up as he put a bite of meatball into his mouth.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

He looked like he was about to choke. I wasn't sure if it was the meatball or my question. It did look a little dry. "I—no. I do not."

I pulled one knee up to my chest while I sat. It was something that always drove Nonna crazy, but sitting at a table like a normal person drove me crazy. "I didn't think so. You haven't called or mentioned anyone since I moved in. Plus, a lot of chicks wouldn't be too keen on a female roommate."

Nathan was suddenly very focused on twisting some spaghetti around on his fork, blackened basil and all. "I—no. They probably wouldn't."

"Why don't you have one?" I wondered.

He paused just before he took a bite, then dropped the full fork to his plate. "A girlfriend?"

"No, an Academy Award. Of course, a girlfriend." I waved my hand at him, gesturing at, well, all he had to offer. Which was considerable. The bod. The job. The chiseled face and the charmingly rumpled hair. "You're a good-looking guy. Better than good-looking, if I'm being honest."

Understatement of the century, ladies and gentlemen.

Nathan, however, looked down at himself as if I'd told him his skin had just turned lime green. "I…" He looked back at me and picked up his fork again. "I tend to be very particular."

He then took a bite as if to punctuate the fact.

"Picky, yeah. I get that," I said as I started to twirl my own pasta around my fork. "My sister Marie is the same way. Twenty-five, never been laid, all because she's lusting after her boss, and no one can compare." Then something occurred to me in the middle of my rambling. "Holy crap, you're not a virgin, are you?"

As soon as it was out there, I regretted saying it.

"What?" Nathan mumbled through a mouth full of pasta.

My entire face heated like the sun. "Not that there would be anything wrong with that. I mean, it would be a little odd, a thirty-something guy with no experience. But I'm sure there are some out there, especially if you're super picky. Oh my God, are you saving yourself? Are you super religious, and I didn't know? Am I going to corrupt you living here?"

Oh, God, the babbling. I couldn't freaking stop myself. It was like I was a faucet that just. Kept. Running.

Until he set his hand atop mine, and the warm weight of it turned the faucet off.

We both stared at our hands, at the way his paw pinned my smaller one to the table. Then, gradually, Nathan pulled his back and went back to his pasta as if nothing had happened.

"For the record," he said. "I'm thirty-four, and I've had seven sexual partners. According to a 2019 NIH study, that puts me firmly within the average range for men my age."

I hadn't heard anything after the word "seven." Because at that point, women popped up in my brain like mushrooms. Seven stunningly beautiful, stupendously sexy, stupidly intelligent mushrooms.

Alongside my veritable forest.

I cringed.

What kind of women did Nathan Hunt go for? Were they blonde and curvy like Marilyn Monroe? Or was he more of a model aficionado who chased after the Bella Hadid lookalikes who roamed New York City like beautiful giraffes? Maybe he had a thing for female equivalents of himself: smart, brainy doctors who also happened to look like movie stars.

Whoever they were, they were probably nothing like me.

Not that it should have mattered.

It didn't. It didn't.

"Let me guess. High school girlfriend, college girlfriend, med school girlfriend, after med school girlfriend, plus a trio of regular booty calls or one-night stands?" I cocked my head as I counted my list with my fingers. "How did those go for you?"

"No one-night stands," Nathan replied calmly. Too calmly. "One college girlfriend, yes. We were engaged briefly, but it didn't work out. After that, the others lasted maybe a month or two during medical school, residency, fellowship. I didn't have much time for relationships."

I nodded. It made sense, I guessed. I didn't really know anything about doctors other than the ones on Grey's Anatomy, and they never seemed to leave the hospital. They were also horny as fuck and had sex in every available corner.

And now I was imagining Nathan running around in scrubs doing hot doctors in the break room. Great.

"Anyway," Nathan continued after he'd swallowed another bite. "Most of the women I've dated tend to treat me differently once they get to know me."

"How so?"

He busied himself with his pasta, taking his time with his words. "I've been told I can be…cold. Unfeeling." He grimaced, like the next one was going to hurt. "It's been suggested that I don't have the capacity to love."

I blinked. "Well, that's fucked up. And obviously bullshit."

One brow lifted. "You think so?"

I nodded. "I do. Look at me. You took me in out of the goodness of your heart, and I'm practically a stranger. What kind of person can't do that if they don't have the ability to love? I think you just haven't met the right girl yet."

Nathan pushed his glasses up his nose and studied me for a long time. I sat up straight and looked right back. While I didn't love the idea of him being with other women for reasons I wasn't going to explore right now, I stood by my words.

"There are a lot of kinds of love," he said finally. "Not everyone is capable of all of them."

Well, he had me there.

"And then there is the matter of who my family is and what I do," he said as he went back to twirling another bite of pasta.

"I can't imagine that's an issue. You're hot enough that I bet plenty of women would jump you in a heartbeat. 'Specially if it meant they could bag themselves a rich doctor in the process."

Jesus. Had I really just said that? Of course I had. I barely had a filter, and it seemed to disappear when I felt awkward. Like right now.

"Is that what you would do?"

My head jerked up. Had he really just asked me that?

Based on the pinking in his cheeks, it seemed that way.

Something like shame flooded my system. Which was very confusing because he wasn't completely wrong. Had my sisters said something? Had one of them mentioned the fact that some version of that idea had been at least insinuated too many times to count?

Did he know that every time I had flunked out of school, my grandmother had sighed and said, "Well, at least you're pretty" as she patted my cheek?

"I may be a lot of things," I managed as I blinked back threatening tears. "But I'm not a gold digger."

Nathan sat back like I'd stabbed him. "Joni, I?—"

"It's been suggested a few times," I admitted, feeling more idiotic by the second. This was supposed to be a friendly dinner. "Like that's what I should be doing to find success. Because, as you've probably realized by now, I'm too dumb to do it on my own."

Nathan put down his fork again. "Why do you keep saying things like that about your intellect? Your family made comments like that too when they brought your things. It was demeaning."

I shrugged and shoved a hand under one eye to push the tears away. "My family loves me, but…yeah. They know I'm not that smart."

"You seem intelligent to me."

I shook my head. "Trust me, I'm definitely not."

Nathan crossed his arms. "Explain."

I huffed. "Dude, you've lived with me for two weeks now—you must see I'm kind of a disaster. Yesterday, in the shower, I couldn't remember if I'd washed my hair, so I did it again. And then I got distracted by a song in my head, so I washed my hair three times."

Nathan's mouth quirked. "That just seems like excessive cleanliness. At worst, you might have some split ends."

"Yeah, well, it's like that with everything. I'm either so obsessed with my thoughts that I literally don't register anything else, or the world is so overwhelming I can't manage anything at all. I can't keep to a schedule, have to write things down at least five times to remember anything, and leave a trail of my crap wherever I go. You saw the kitchen." I waved in that general direction. "And that's my best behavior."

Nathan peered at me. "What does that have to do with your intelligence? Einstein had terrible hygiene. Plenty of bright people struggle with executive function."

I stared at my plate for a long time, suddenly wishing I could get up and go to my room. But if saying grace had been childish, running away would ice that particular cake. And for some reason, I didn't want Nathan to think that about me. He could find out I was an idiot and a flighty mess. But he didn't need to think I was a coward too.

"Well, I'm not bright either," I told him. "I'm pretty sure I graduated high school only because my English teacher had a crush on me, and two of my Spanish teachers made out with me after school. Pervs. They were so old."

Nathan didn't say a word; he just started eating again while I continued.

"School was never easy for me, unlike everyone else in my family. It took me a really long time to learn to read, and even now, I'm slower than most and can't spell at all. Math was horrible—don't ever ask me to recite my times tables. I wasn't trying to fail, but I could never seem to remember to do stuff. It was too much—the homework, the projects, the books, the classes." I dropped my foot to the floor, where it tapped automatically on the rug. "Things that came easy to others were always too hard for me. Not that bright. Get it?" I looked up. "Actually, I bet you don't. Doctors kind of have to do well in school, huh?"

Nathan seemed to take an extra-long time to chew and swallow. Then he sat forward and steepled his hands over his plate. "We only covered mental health for a few weeks in med school, but it sounds to me like you're neurodivergent. Possibly in multiple ways."

"Neuro-what?" He might as well have spoken Mandarin.

"It means your brain might work differently than others."

I blinked. "Oh. Well. Haven't I just been explaining that?"

Nathan turned to me like I was one of his patients. "Neurodivergence doesn't necessarily indicate intelligence deficits. I'm not a psychiatrist, but based on what you said and what I already knew about you, I'd guess ADHD, plus maybe a learning disability like dyslexia or dyscalculia. However, there are plenty of things that can interfere with different types of cognitive processing. Have you ever been evaluated?"

I shook my head. "Evaluated for mind issues? That would be a no."

"This can't be the first time anyone has suggested something like this. One of your teachers must have said something to your parents."

"Probably not, since my dad died when I was a baby, and my mom was in and out of jail until I was twenty-one." Apparently, I was dropping all the bombs tonight.

Nathan frowned. "Who raised you, then?"

"My grandparents." I sighed. "Well, until my grandpa passed away. I was seven when that happened. Then it was just Nonna with six kids."

"She's the one who just moved to Italy."

I nodded.

He contemplated that for a minute. "And she never said anything?"

I snorted. "Did my conservative immigrant grandmother straight out of the nineteen-fifties say something about my weird brain? Ah, that's a big negative, man. Look, I don't know what school you went to?—"

"My brothers and I all attended the Highland School, followed by Episcopal."

"Those all sound very fancy and maybe religious. Private?"

Nathan nodded.

"Figures." I toyed with my pasta but found I'd lost most of my appetite. Talking about this crap tended to have that effect on me.

Under the table, I tapped out the opening steps to my first ballet recital with my toes. God, I wished I could dance.

"Matthew, Lea, Kate, and Frankie all did elementary school at Our Redeemer—that's the local parish school," I said when Nathan kept waiting for me to fill him in. "But after my grandpa died, Nonna couldn't afford the tuition anymore, so Marie and I just went to the local public school in Belmont."

"That's in the Bronx?"

I nodded. "Yeah. They were fine. I guess."

"You guess?"

"I mean, as good as school is gonna get with thirty kids in a classroom, and half of them don't speak English." I picked up a shriveled carrot and let it drop back on the plate as I slouched around it. "The teachers had bigger problems to deal with than a little girl who couldn't read super well. Not when a lot of their students couldn't read at all. Skip to me barely graduating, then flunking out of community college twice. Cosmetology school too. Dance was the only thing I was really ever good at."

Nathan blinked, almost as if in recognition. "Dance. So that's what you meant."

Sadly, I nodded. "Pretty much."

He glanced back at the kitchen, then at me. Taking stock, no doubt, of the horrible mistake he'd made by inviting me to live with him. Joni Zola, The Great Disappointment.

"Well, for what it's worth," he said quietly, "I think you're smart. You're articulate and interesting and obviously very shrewd when you want to be. I also think you are much more than just a dancer. I think you are capable of just about anything."

I couldn't move. Couldn't even bring myself to look at him. If I did, I knew I'd cry.

"Would you ever consider being evaluated?" he wondered as he speared a carrot.

"What's that going to do now?" I wondered glumly.

"Well, for one, there are medications you can take for ADHD if you need them. If you have a learning disability, there are plenty of therapy options available, even for adults."

I chuckled. "Oh, Nathan, you're funny. I'll put that on the list right after the surgery I'm supposed to pay for with the two hundred dollars currently in my bank account. Well, one seventy-five after getting all the stuff for this meal. Sorry it's not organic. I can't afford it."

With that, I shoved my fork into my pasta and took the biggest bite I could muster. And immediately froze.

"Oh my God," I said, though it couldn't have been understandable through a mouth full of overcooked mush.

"What is it?" Nathan wondered, looking mildly alarmed. "Is everything okay?"

By some miracle, I managed to swallow the bite and not hurl it back up. I shoved my plate away, unable to bear it. God, it even smelled bad now.

"Nathan," I whispered. "This spaghetti is horrible."

Nathan looked down at his now half-eaten plate of food, then back at mine. "Well…yes. But I thought it was supposed to taste like this."

"You thought spaghetti and meatballs was supposed to taste like ketchup soup and garlicky cardboard?" Before I could stop myself, I fell back in my chair, laughing.

Nathan bit back a smile. "I—well, not generally."

Before I knew it, we were both laughing. It had to be a record. From tears to hoots in less than five minutes.

The best part, however, was that he was laughing too. I'd make him bad spaghetti anytime if I could listen to that warm, low chuckle whenever I wanted.

"Wait." I stopped laughing as another thought struck me. "You thought the food was terrible, and you ate it anyway?"

The pink in Nathan's cheeks flushed a bit darker. "What's that look? I don't know that expression yet."

I blinked and only just managed to close my mouth. "It's—I—I'm surprised, that's all. No one has ever done something like this for me before."

"You're surprised that I ate some bad pasta for you?" He was so obviously adorably confused. "Compared to whom? Why would anyone else have done that?"

"It's not about the pasta. It's about how terrible it is."

This time, I was the one to reach across the table for his hand. He gave it willingly and seemed unable to stop looking at them once they were joined.

"I grew up in a house where everyone just loves to tell each other what they're doing wrong," I said. "So, it's about doing something for someone else just because you want them to feel good. I…thank you, I guess. It's small, but it means something to me. I guess this look is happiness. In a way."

Nathan continued staring at our hands, this time with my long, thin fingers laid over his larger, solid ones. Gently, he turned his palm over, wove our fingers together, and squeezed.

"I have a favor to ask of you." His voice was low. The mirth was gone, but there was something gentler about it. An ease I hadn't heard before, even though he still sounded slightly nervous.

"What's that?" Right now, I'd probably give him anything. As it stood, I already owed him more than I'd ever be able to repay.

"I told you about my family, how they worry about me…socially." Nathan said the words through his teeth. The fingers entwined with mine tensed.

"Like how mine all think I'm an idiot," I said. "We have that in common, I guess."

Nathan nodded, and his hand relaxed again.

"My parents have recently become more fixated on my romantic life than usual," he went on. "They're convinced they need to find me a significant other at all costs."

He glanced at me like he was waiting for me to add something. Maybe object.

I only nodded. Some things were apparently universal. "You met my sisters, so you know I totally get it. Overbearing families are super annoying."

"They are," Nathan agreed. "Super."

I giggled. His brown eyes sparkled behind his glasses.

"There's an event I have to attend in a few more weeks. A gala for the hospital, then possibly some other events as spring approaches. My parents will be there, along with my brothers." Nathan paused as he ran his thumb over my knuckles. "In the spirit of ‘helping' me with my social life, I wondered if you'd be willing to accompany me as…my girlfriend. At least, that's what I'd tell them to relieve the pressure. And in return, you can consider the next six months of rent paid, even if you decide to leave. It will hopefully give you the time to find a job you're suited to."

My jaw practically hit the floor. "Really?"

Nathan just squeezed my hand. "Yes, really. I'd be grateful. Clearly, I need some assistance when it comes to situations like these. Think of it as a lesson. I'll treat you like my girlfriend. And you can tell me all the things I do wrong. I…I think maybe we understand each other, Joni. Would you agree?"

Oddly, I did. I shouldn't have. We were about as different as it got. Nathan was a surgeon who was probably going to have a line of hot, equally accomplished women trailing after him the minute he said go. I was going to be lucky if I ever did anything besides serving drinks again. He was smart. I was…well, maybe I was too. But also, maybe not. I still wasn't sure about that one.

No matter what, though, he was right. There was something about this odd, awkward man I understood deep down. And even more strangely, he seemed to get me too.

"It's a deal," I said. Until I realized something else.

"What is it?" Nathan demanded immediately. "What's wrong?"

Dread lodged itself in my stomach like an anvil. "I can't go to a gala, Nathan. The only dresses I own are the ones I wear at the club. Everyone will think I'm your call girl, not your girlfriend."

Nathan recoiled, then looked me over, like my schlubby PJs were no different than Rochelle's silver outfit I'd worn just a few weeks earlier.

"Er—we'll have to get you a dress," he agreed. "I'll pay for it, of course."

I bit my lower lip. "Are you sure?"

I didn't want to take that too, but there was no way I could afford anything better than the ten-dollar sidewalk sales on St. Mark's Place.

"Call it part of your compensation," Nathan said as he took his hand back.

Relief coursed through me. "All right." Out of habit, I took another bite of pasta, and once again, could barely keep it down. "Oh God, that really is awful."

Nathan hadn't touched his. "Can I request one more favor?"

I took several gulps of water to wash down the horror show on my plate. "Depends on what it is."

"Please don't cook for me again. If you want to do something nice, I like the Greek place around the corner. They have very good souvlaki."

I grinned and was rewarded with yet another rare sighting of the Nathan Hunt light show when he smiled back.

"My dude," I told him. "That is a promise I can definitely keep."