A magnificent walnut and hickory dining table set took pride of place near the front of the living room by the kitchen, glowing with polish and looking like the heirloom it surely was. The rest of the room was strangely empty however, Sera noticed. There were no pictures or personal mementos. For someone who took as much care with his shop environs as Asher did, the unfinished quality of his house was marked. As though, Sera thought, his heart was more in his work than in his home. The only seating, aside from the elegant dining room chairs, was one old corduroy-covered armchair slouched in a corner by the woodstove, begging for a cat or a dog to flop down on its saggy cushions.
As if she knew she was wanted, Sascha trundled out from around a corner, tongue lolling and doggy lips turned up in a grin. When she saw her master, she gave a soft woof, quickened her pace, and hastened to stuff her long gray nose right in his chino-covered crotch.
Sera’s cheeks burned, but Asher just gave the bitch a scratch behind the ears and gently shooed her away from his family jewels. “Sweet Sascha,” he murmured, “we have a guest. Be polite.”
Sascha obligingly turned to Sera and gave her the same treatment.
Sera was saved from death by dog-induced embarrassment by the arrival of Silver, who galloped into the room and playfully latched on to his mother’s plume-like tail. Sascha nipped remonstratively at her offspring, then both pooches sat on their haunches and looked up at Asher, plainly expectant.
“I believe refreshments are in order, if I’m any judge of canine communication,” he said lightly. “Come! Dinner!” He strode off into the kitchen, huskies scrambling after him in their haste to be fed. Sera snapped to attention and nearly followed along before she realized he hadn’t meant her. She smiled sheepishly.
As he poured kibble into a bowl, Asher called back to Sera, “May I offer you something to drink, Bliss? A glass of wine, or a beer?”
Oh God. Here it came. That awkward moment every sober alcoholic faced a thousand times. Maybe she could finesse it. But instead of her usual “I’m on antibiotics” or “I get migraines,” Sera found herself blurting out, “Um, I don’t drink anymore. That is… I, ah, quit a while back.”
Her whole psyche cringed. Way to blow it, Serafina, she groaned inwardly. Asher seriously didn’t need to know about her struggles with the bottle. I might as well have worn a T-shirt that says, “Boozer on Board,” she thought grimly. But somehow she hadn’t been able to lie to Asher.
Asher didn’t blink. “How about a soda or an iced tea?” he asked mildly. “Or I can make coffee, if you prefer.”
Whoa. He wasn’t going to ask? Sera was as taken aback as she was relieved. Experience had shown her that people either got really squirrelly and awkward when she copped to her alcoholism (often the ones with drinking problems themselves), or they peppered her with uncomfortable questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. Or worse, tried to convince her she didn’t need to quit drinking—she didn’t look like an alcoholic, after all. But Asher did none of those things. He simply accepted what she said, and moved on.
Flustered by the warmth that blossomed in her chest, Sera shifted her weight and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Maybe just some ice water? Driving Cupcake is thirsty work,” she joked lamely.
“Coming right up. Please, have a seat,” he invited, gesturing to the dining chairs. “I’m sorry I can’t make you more comfortable, but the puppies pretty much ate the couch, so I had to toss it. I don’t have much in the way of furniture left.”
“Except this gorgeous table,” Sera said, stroking her fingers across the fine-grained walnut and tracing the seamlessly inlaid diamond patterns worked in lighter hickory as she seated herself. “Wherever did you find such a beautiful dining set?”
Asher busied himself taking a glass down from a cabinet and filling it with ice. “It was a wedding gift from my father-in-law,” he said, not looking at her. “He was a woodworker, and he made it to surprise my wife and I…”
Asher stopped, as if the memory were too painful.
“Oh,” said Sera. Her heart ached for him, but there was a small, petty part of herself that ached for a different reason. Clearly, her landlord wasn’t over whatever event had scarred his past—and he wasn’t over the woman he’d lost. If she were a truly decent person, she would be comforting him, not lusting after him. But what if I make it worse? She did want to ask him about his wife—was she dead, had they divorced, had she run off?—but she wasn’t prepared to ruin the evening by gauchely blundering into Asher’s private pain, as she feared she might. Besides, she sensed very clearly that he wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. She had to respect that, even if it left her burning with questions. When he set the water down in front of her, Sera guzzled it a bit too fast, spilling some down her chin. Her cheeks flamed. “See? Told you I had a drinking problem,” she quipped, hoping for at least a chuckle.
Asher didn’t laugh. Instead he leaned down and traced his thumb along the path the droplets had taken, wiping her skin of stray moisture. Sera gulped as their eyes met. An instant surge of desire rocketed through her system, nearly taking her breath away. Did he feel it, too?
He wasn’t admitting it if he was. He pivoted back to his kitchen, calling lightly over his shoulder, “Let me see what I can scrounge up for us to eat.”
God, he was the perfect man. An artisan, a musician, a wizard with plants and animals. And now, her own personal chef.
Ten minutes later, Sera learned that wasn’t quite true.
Asher was a hopeless cook.
He was all sound and fury, banging pots and sizzling pans, but if the acrid smoke and the muttered cursing in Hebrew were any indication, her landlord’s talents did not extend to the culinary arts.
“Need any help there?” she ventured after he slid the unidentifiable results of his efforts straight from the frying pan into the trash—for the second time. “It is what I do for a living, after all.”
Asher turned to face her. For the first time since they’d met, his cocksure composure had slipped just a crack, and there was a harried look on his face. “I’m a bit nervous,” he confessed.
“You’re nervous?” her voice went up a notch in disbelief.
“I haven’t cooked for a woman since my wife…” He stopped, looked chagrined. “Well, not for many years. And never for a famous chef,” he said more lightly. “I can only imagine what standards you’re used to.”
“Mr. Wolf,” she said with mock solemnity. “Let me make a suggestion here.”
“By all means,” he said with the same seriousness.
“Get your buns out of the kitchen and let a professional take over.”
In the end he didn’t leave the kitchen, but he proved to be as good a sous chef as he was lousy at taking the lead, culinarily speaking. At her direction, he washed, sliced, and diced meekly, if less than deftly. There wasn’t much to work with—typical male, his fridge was pretty barren—but Sera managed to unearth some tomatoes (homegrown from his garden, of course), mushrooms, a hunk of mozzarella, some avocado and basil (also from Asher’s garden), and a half-dozen eggs. With practiced movements, she built two respectable omelets and, within minutes, slid them onto the stoneware plates Asher provided. “There,” she said. “Not fancy, but they’ll do.”