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the meat had gone from pink to brown, Sandra headed home, leaving us to our own devices.
    Eric designated me official cheese grater. “Just don’t cut yourself,” he said, handing me a block of cheddar.
    I attacked the cheese, hoping to show him that I wasn’t completely useless in the kitchen, and promptly shaved off part of a fingernail. Thankfully I hadn’t scraped anything with a nerve in it.
    He laughed at me before launching into “Come Fly with Me.” I stopped grating and watched him place nacho chips on a large cookie sheet while swaying his hips to the tune. I knew the lyrics by heart but I didn’t want to join in and ruin it. When he caught me watching, he finger-snapped over to me. We danced around the kitchen to the soundtrack of his smooth, steady baritone.
    “All right, get back to work,” he said when the song was over. “Cheese only this time.”
    “You know what they’re going to call you right?” I picked up the grater again. “The next Frank Sinatra.”
    “No one can be the next Frank Sinatra. No one should be.” He ladled out some hamburger and onions over the nacho chips. “I just want to be the first and best Eric Wentworth.”
    “That sounds ridiculous.” My pile of cheese shavings—sans nail—was starting to look like a small mountain. I set the grater down and crossed the counter to his side.
    “How about the one-and-only Eric Wentworth?” He popped a piece of jalapeno into his mouth, chewing with a grin.
    I grimaced. “How can you eat them like that? Isn’t your mouth burning?” He shrugged and ate another. “One-and-only sounds kind of conceited. You should be The Eric Wentworth Band.”
    He snorted. “Yeah, like that’s not conceited.”
    “It’s no different than The Glenn Miller Orchestra.”
    Eric sprinkled the cheese over his heaps of peppers, chips and hamburger. He ate another jalapeno.
    “Babe, you’re absolutely right.” He had never called me babe before and I think I blushed at it. He looked at me, his eyes pleaded in a playful way. “Wanna be in my band?”
    “You won’t need me, you bozo.” I pointed at him. “You already have a pianist.”
    “Bozo?” He grabbed my finger and gently yanked, pulling me toward him.
    I put my other hand on his chest. “But I’ll watch every show. Cheer you on the loudest. Promise.”
    His playful manner disappeared. He stared at me, his eyes searching mine. I straightened, confused and a little alarmed by his sudden mood change. His heart beat rapidly under my fingertips. I was about to ask him what was wrong, when he leaned forward and kissed me.
    I stood there, eyes wide open and mouth closed against his lips. A second later, he pulled back. We looked at each other for a long moment. Then he lowered his head and went back to his nacho-making. A slow blush painted splotches across his neck.
    Shocked, confused and nervous, I stood there and stared at him. Like I was seeing this man before me for the first time.
    His short blond hair was a little messy in the back because he’d run his hands over it. I imagined myself reaching out and smoothing it down with my fingers. His tanned hands picked at the cheese, spreading it out evenly. I pictured those hands in mine, touching my face, running through my hair, stroking my skin. I could see myself wrapping my arms around his chest, reaching my head up for a kiss, or burying my nose in his neck. Suddenly, I saw him in a whole new way, and I liked it.
    Eric took the cookie sheet and put it in the oven. After setting the timer, he slowly turned around and faced me.
    The question on his face was plain. He wanted to know what I thought. Had his move been a good one, or was this one of those awkward moments we would pretend never happened?
    His blue eyes looked deeper than they ever had before. They were a color all their own, one you could only match with a paint sample.
    I was captivated by his lips, and the urge to feel them again, this time for real, was strong. I closed