“Cheffing for a family on the mountain.” Because under no circumstances would I be adopting the title of chalet girl.
“A private chef?” He sat up straighter and played at smoothing the creases of his shirt. “Very fancy.”
I laughed, a little embarrassed. “Stop.”
He had tall-man confidence, which was good, to a point. It was surprisingly difficult to find a guy at the optimal height. I was on the taller side myself, so guys shorter than me often got a complex about it. And guys taller than me tended toward arrogance. Neither was attractive. Charles, so far, was edging toward the Goldilocks zone.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to cook,” he said.
“What’s stopping you? Even cavemen mastered the basics.”
“Suppose I’m just unusually unteachable.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a self-deprecating smirk. “Except for macaroni and cheese. It’s the one thing I can competently manage.”
“You can tell a lot about a person by their signature dish,” I told him.
“Yeah? What does mine say?”
I took another swig of my drink and shook my head. “Let’s say . . . it’s stalwart. Conventional, but in a comforting way. If also a little bad for you.”
“Huh.” He finished his beer and held up his hand to the bartender for another. “You got all that from mac and cheese?”
I shrugged. “Off the top of my head.”
“Alright, let me give it a try.” He furrowed his brow, concentrating, as he motioned for me to lob him the pitch. “What’s yours?”
“Osso buco.”
He rubbed his chin, seeming to think on it a good long while, until he threw up his hands and admitted, “Yeah, I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s an Italian dish. Veal shanks braised with white wine and vegetables. Usually served over something like risotto or polenta.”
His brows perked up. “Okay, that sounds amazing. You’ll have to make it for me sometime.”
“Oh yeah?” I said over the rim of my drink. “Angling for a second date already?”
Charles winked. “I like my chances.”
“What if I said that now I’m completely turned off?”
His smile widened, full of perfect white teeth.
“I’d say, don’t write me off before you’ve tried my mac and cheese.”
We talked for nearly two hours, about everything, anything, and nothing at all. Our conversation was effortless. And as we sat there, his body gradually slid closer to mine, our knees touching between our stools, his hand finding reasons to brush my arm or graze my leg. Our faces grew closer and closer until barely a cocktail napkin could fit between us. The whole room seemed to shimmer.
“I suppose you’re staying nearby?” he said.
Maybe it was the drinks, or the way his navy flannel fit perfectly over his broad shoulders, but as the bar began to thin out and edged toward closing time, part of me desperately wanted to take him up on the implied invitation.
“I am,” I said, glancing at the clock on my phone. “And I’d better get back. One way or another, I have an early morning.”
Whether I would be meeting my new employers or making the long drive back to Denver, I had to get some sleep tonight.
“Just a nightcap then?” He gave my knee a playful squeeze and held up his hand to the bartender for the check.
“I really wish I could.” I put some money down on the bar and slid my jacket on. “It was very nice talking to you. You don’t know how much I needed the company.”
“Can I at least walk you home?” he offered, frowning at the cash on the bar as he stood.
