Chapter 5: The Guest Room

He cooked in my kitchen in his shirtsleeves, and it was the first time the room had smelled like anything.

I stood in the doorway in my stocking feet with my heels in my hand.

The house in River Oaks was too big for one person.

I had bought it with my father's money after the funeral and furnished it with things a decorator picked.

Joaquin had found the one good knife in the drawer, and he was cutting an onion.

"You have nothing in this fridge," he said without turning.

"I have eggs."

"You have eleven eggs and a lemon."

"Sit," he said. "You're making the room nervous."

I sat at the island and watched his forearms.

He had rolled his sleeves to the elbow.

A pale scar ran along one wrist, and another curved over the back of his left hand.

His shoulders moved under the white shirt in a way I had not been prepared for.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"Galleys. Mostly."

"On ships?"

"A few."

"You worked on ships."

"I worked on everything," Joaquin said. "Pour yourself something. You've earned it."

I poured two glasses of red and pushed one across.

He tasted it and made a face.

"That's an eighty-dollar bottle," I said.

"It's fine. It's just not for this food."

He set a plate in front of me.

It was eggs, softened onion, charred tortilla, a green sauce that made my eyes water, and a squeeze of lemon on top.

I took one bite and put my fork down.

"Oh," I said.

"Good?"

"I would marry you for this." I heard it and went red. "Again. I mean, I did."

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