On my last forkful, the silence got to me, and when I placed the fork down in the bowl, I rambled, “My mom cooked beef stroganoff once, but it was nothing like this. She also couldn’t say the words as well as you do.” Heat hit my cheeks, and I quickly went on. “But when Dad complained about the meat being too tough, she never tried again and stuck to her normal meals she was used to cooking. They mainly contained sausage and vegetables. Meatloaf and vegetables. Lamb stews and chicken and rice. There were other plain dishes, but nothing to rave about. It wasn’t until I reached high school and was allowed to attend my first and only sleepover that I discovered pizza.” I groaned. “I never knew love until I had my first taste.”

Laughing, I shook my head. I hadn’t once looked at him while I spoke; instead, I gazed out the windows or down at the table. “When I started college and moved out, I kind of went crazy with all types of takeout, but I soon realized it wasn’t good for my bank account. Still, I spoil myself once a week with it.” Where the hell was I going with this conversation? “Anyway,” I drew out, sliding my fork back and forth in the bowl. “Do you eat takeout?” Did that sound rude? Did it sound like I didn’t enjoy the meal? Shit, I was getting paid to be here, and now it sounded like I was judging his food or the fact he cooked by mentioning takeout. With wide eyes, I dragged them up and spewed the words, “Wait, I didn’t mean I didn’t like dinner. I did, and I appreciate you cooking. I wish I could cook. Seriously, that was the best meal I’ve had in a long time because I’m not a good cook.”

“I know you liked it,” Mr. Hail replied, and that was it.

I slumped as the tension rolled off me. “Well, that’s good then.” I smiled. What did we do now? Did he want to watch a movie? Read a book together? Did I suggest something? If I didn’t look away from his lips, he would get an idea I liked them. I didn’t. His full, pink lips weren’t spank-worthy material. I pulled my gaze up to his dark blue eyes that matched well with his dark blond hair. The sides were shaved close to the scalp, but on top was party time with a messy length that sat over to the left side of his face.

If I weren’t gay, I was sure the sight of Mr. Hail could turn me.

Clearing my throat, I glanced away. “Um, this is a nice place you have. Do you work from here?”

“Nyet.”