Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
“Appreciated, but I’m coming with the pan. I can get you started sautéing without torching anything at least. You need another onion? I’ve got plenty.”
“You want to help me?” Russ blinked. This was…unexpected.
Other than collecting his cat, who had a penchant for escaping and sitting outside Russ’s bedroom window, Esteban had never seemed especially inclined to chat. Which, all things considering, was probably for the best, as Russ was hardly the most on small talk himself.
“Sure.” Esteban gave him a shrug and saucy wink as he headed back toward their building. “I’ve got my pan to protect, after all.”
“You don’t have plans today? I don’t want to keep you.”
“Nah.” Another easy smile as they walked through the complex’s gardens. The greenery was nice, but the condos weren’t particularly remarkable—one and two story older gray buildings ringing a central courtyard. The Realtor had raved about the mid-century details and the complete remodel for his unit, but Russ had cared more about no stairs and the steal of a price.
And even without stairs to navigate, his knees ached from the unexpected trek to the trash, and he had to work to keep up with Esteban’s quick, efficient gait.
As they reached their side-by-side front doors, Esteban continued, “My family’s not the most on Thanksgiving. My sister, she’s a nurse, and she always volunteers to work the Thanksgiving shifts so that she’s guaranteed Christmas Eve off. Same for my brother, the cop. He’ll work whatever he needs to in order to have Christmas and Easter for the family. And my work friends usually do a friendsgiving thing, but we’re doing it on Friday this year because some people had family commitments. So, tomorrow, I’ll cook for that, probably make extra to take to my dad for a family dinner Saturday, but right now, I’m all yours.”
All yours. Ironically, that was how Soren, his ex, had signed messages. And look how that had turned out. But Russ wasn’t about to turn Esteban away, not when he had a ticking clock until the guests arrived. Better to focus on the right now part, as in right now he had help.
“Thanks.”
“Give me five minutes to grab the pan and change out of my running gear?”
“Sure.” Feeling decidedly less dejected, Russ let himself back into his condo, which still stunk of scorched onions.
Despite the dipping temperatures, he opened all the windows, half-expecting Esteban’s menace of a cat to leap in—it had happened before.
He didn’t want to risk another pan-tastrophe before Esteban came over, so he eased onto a stool by the kitchen counter and studied the plan he’d dashed off in the early morning hours. The shock of Soren calling everything off had kept him awake, and making a list of the various dishes had seemed smart. But remembering what Soren had discussed when they’d done a big shopping trip Tuesday night was a challenge, and the list had only gotten him so far.
He’d been whacking up the celery when the onion crisis had happened, so he returned to the carnage he’d managed to make there. Soren would have made a precise little pile of dices while going on about different obscure varieties of celery, but right then, he had no Soren, only a dull cleaver and his own limited chopping skills.
The doorbell put an end to dwelling on Soren and celery. He opened the door to find Esteban looking way too damn good in a blue and gray striped shirt, carrying a stack of three skillets, two onions, a head of non-mangled celery, and even a folded apron.
“You’re a lifesaver.” Russ sounded more reverent than he’d intended as he gestured Esteban inside.
“Nah. Only a guy with too much invested at Kitchen Kaboodle.” Esteban’s smile could undoubtedly win him whatever Hollywood role he wanted, at least if Russ were the judge. “Show me to your kitchen.”
Russ led the way to the U-shaped space at the rear of the condo’s living space. Like most of the condo, the kitchen was done in shades of pale—cream granite, white cabinets, and beige tile, accented by stainless-steel appliances. Russ would have swapped the position of the sink and the stove and added a pullout pantry to maximize the tight quarters over by the fridge, but it wasn’t a bad use of space. However, with Esteban on his heels, it suddenly felt that much more miniature.
“Oh, good. Same layout as my place.” Esteban didn’t seem to share Russ’s claustrophobia, moving around him easily to set down his stack of items. He shook out his apron and tied it on. That he had an apron was beyond endearing. “I’m sort of remodeling mine in pieces, but I’ve got the same stove. Now, you were starting with stuffing?”
“Yeah.”
If they knew each other better, he’d volunteer remodeling help. He’d been playing with some design software lately, and it would be nice to be able to repay Esteban’s generosity in some meaningful way. Esteban’s unit had two bedrooms, but from what Russ had seen of it—usually in the process of handing back the cat—it hadn’t been as thoroughly redone as his place. Same gleaming hardwoods though and similar living-space arrangement.