“Because you wear this permanent deer-in-the-headlights look. I don’t know if you’re scared of me or just really confused. But since I don’t think I’m a scary person, I have to assume you’re confused. I don’t know how they do things in Texas, so I’m just walking you through my routine.”

“We have toasters in Texas. And for the record, I spent most of my life in Nebraska. It’s a neighboring state to Colorado, in case you don’t have good geography skills.”

My reaction pleased him, or at least that was the look he chose to give me. Complete amusement.

I wasn’t trying to amuse or please him.

“I’m not sure yoga pants are the best choice for work apparel. I suggest jeans for sure. Leather work boots for visiting job sites. And whatever shirt you want as long as you don’t care if it gets dirty.”

“I didn’t know I was starting work today. And I don’t have work boots. I have tennis shoes.”

“Those will work.” He grabbed the toast when it popped up and deposited two pieces onto each plate. “We’ll get you work boots later. Maybe over our lunch break.”

“Sounds …” I started to say “sexy.” Why? I didn’t know. But I quickly replaced it with something less provocative. “Fashionable.”

“Fashionable?” He glanced over his shoulder while spreading the peanut butter. “This isn’t a job where you have to worry about being fashionable. Practical and safe for the win.”

“I don’t like peanut butter.” I eyed his hand spreading it onto my toast too.

“Jesus, woman … are you even human?” He scraped the peanut butter off the bread and returned it to the jar. “There’s the fridge. Have at it. Put whatever you want on your toast.”

It would still smell like peanut butter, but I opted to keep my mouth shut and just gut it down. He added his sliced bananas and took a seat on one of the painted metal barstools while I found a stick of butter and smeared lots of it over the residual peanut butter.

“I threw up a bunch of puppy chow … you know, the corn or rice cereal with peanut butter, melted chocolate, and powdered sugar? And since then, I haven’t been able to eat peanut butter.”

“Thanks for sharing your peanut butter vomit story while I’m eating peanut butter.”

I glanced over my shoulder while returning the butter to the fridge. “Oops. Sorry. Cinnamon?”

He nodded to the spice rack by the stove.

“Sugar?” I grabbed the cinnamon.

“Pantry.”

“Where is your pantry?”

“The door to your right.” He took a big bite of his toast and nodded to the cabinet door.

“Here?” I opened the door and a light turned on to a hidden pantry and walked inside. “This is cool.”

“Second shelf on the right, clear to the back.”