A Lick and a Promise

If her eyes hadn’t been shining like that he’d have been insulted. Maybe he was insulted anyway.

She washed her hands, dried them with a pink towel, then handed him the basil as if it were the crown jewels. It was his turn at the sink. His concentration was split between his task and Margot. She had sprinkled flour on two large pizza boards and was folding a large round of dough as if she’d done it hundreds of times.

She cut the dough in six, then brought out a wooden rolling pin and made two ovals. When she turned to the fridge, he went back to the basil, making sure it was thoroughly clean. He wrapped it in paper towels as he watched her once more.

“We’re going to Corrie’s next,” she said. “Then Eric and Devon’s. We’ll have dessert at Rocco’s, which is really a treat, because he cooks a hell of a lot better than he knits.”

“And you do this every Sunday?”

“Yep. These are the regulars, but the rest of the folks in the building join in from time to time. We’re all pretty friendly.”

“So I gathered.”

She put down a large bowl filled with stuff like braided mozzarella, mushrooms, olives and tomatoes and turned to face him. “Tell me about you, Daniel.”

“I’m an architect.”

“Have I seen any of your work?”

“Maybe. I designed the Fourth Street library in Brooklyn Heights.”

“Nope.”

“Uh, the Woolsey building on lower Broadway.”

She shook her head.

“Those are the biggest projects.”

“Are they gorgeous?”

“Gorgeous?” He smiled. “No one’s ever called them that.”

“What have they called them?”

“Practical. Well built. Sturdy.”

She blinked. “Tear them up.”

“Pardon?”

“The basil leaves. Tear them. Into pieces.” Then she turned to the pizzas and started spreading the sauce.

Devon stuck his head in the kitchen. “Hey, we’re starving out here.”

“Then go make sure the grill’s ready.”

Devon saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” He did a two-point turn and marched away.

“Totally nuts, but such a sweet pea. You’ll love him. And Eric. They’re great.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Five years. This place used to belong to my uncle Sid. He was a photographer. Mostly for National Geographic. Incredible life. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Okay.”

“Continue.”

“What?”

“Telling me about your life.”

“Ah. Well, I moved from Greenwich. Connecticut.”

“Hell of a commute.”

“Yeah. I got real used to the train.”

She turned to him again. “Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

That took him back a step. “No.”

“Ah, so you’re straight.”

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what? Rude?”

“I was going to say forthright.”

She patted his arm. “That’s sweet. Really.”

He had no idea how to respond to her. How to react to this whirlwind. So he focused on the basil. He was supposed to tear it. Which he did, even though he wasn’t the least bit sure he was doing it correctly.

She emptied her bowl and started slicing mozzarella so quickly it made him fear for her fingers. By the time he’d finished tearing, she had neat little bowls of accoutrements, most of which he recognized. She rubbed the crusts with olive oil, then scattered them with mozzarella, some of his basil and then some prosciutto. Then she lifted the boards, one in each hand. “Come. We grill now. Oh, and be a love and get me a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking.”

He nodded as he watched her walk from the kitchen. His gaze moved down the length of her, wishing he could see more of her curves. What he did see appealed in a way that surprised the hell out of him.

This Margot was something outside his ken. Brash, focused and a little nuts. But interesting. Definitely Chelsea. Completely not Greenwich.

He thought again about his excuses to leave. Now would be the perfect time. No one would think he was escaping. On the other hand, that pizza sounded really good.

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