I didn’t care about football, but baseball was another matter.

“Tread carefully now, King.” I lifted a brow at him. “You’re talkin’ to a Mets fan.”

He blanched at that for some reason, and he sent a skyward glance as if asking for strength. It was funny. “In other words, you wouldn’t know a good team if it smacked you upside the head either.”

I withheld my humor—or I tried to, anyway. “Camden roots for the Mets?”

“He does,” King replied somberly. “Everyone has flaws.”

Fuck that, I was proud. “A boy after my own heart. Good for him.”

King hummed and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. “So you’d say he’s got good taste?”

Obviousl—wait. There was a cue I didn’t wanna miss out on, but I had to be wrong. Right? Because if he was… No. No, he wouldn’t move this into flirting territory. Would he?

Screw it. No matter the level he was asking on, the answer was the same.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

He eyed me for a beat longer, frustratingly unreadable, then dropped his gaze to my cutting board. “I’m serving Hasselback potatoes with the kabobs. It’ll be up to you if you need me to be the Patrick Swayze to your Demi Moore.”

Mannaggia. He thought I could slice the potatoes like that? I fucking loved Hasselback potatoes, but you had to slice them real thin. And not all the way through.

“I reckon I should take a step back on that one,” I said hesitantly. No matter how much I most likely would’ve enjoyed my Ghost moment.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He smirked and opened one of the drawers where they kept their knives. They had countless of them. “You won’t learn if no one gives you a challenge.”

“Right, but baby steps—”

“Are for babies. Watch me first. Then you try.” His assertiveness made it impossible to argue.

I watched as he grabbed a few potatoes from one of the bags and placed them on the board. Then he bent down a little and started slicing the first potato with perfect accuracy, stopping about half an inch before he would hit the board.

It was porn. His fingers gripping the razor-sharp knife, the blade slicing through the potato, each slice about two or three millimeters thick, the muscles moving sensually along his forearm.

“I’ll just keep watching you,” I murmured. I bent down too, my elbow hitting the counter, and my cheek in my hand.

I’d thought about music before, idly, that we coulda used some, but now I was thankful I hadn’t suggested any. It was enough to hear his calm breaths and the faint sound of the knife sliding through the potato.