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Once we get back to the kitchen, I get the pork chops out of the fridge and present them to him.
“Oh, man. They’re huge!” he says.
“I know. I have no idea why he gave me such a good deal on them,” I reply.
Dean gives me a funny look.
“What?” I ask.
“You can’t be serious?” he asks.
His raised eyebrows are making me worried. What if these aren’t pork chops? What if they’re pork spleen, liver, or some other part of the pig that no one else usually wants?
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“He obviously thinks you’re a knockout,” Dean says, a teasing smile on his face that makes me want to hit him and kiss him in equal parts.
“Yeah, right,” I say, and roll my eyes. I’m a single mother whose current exercise routine is working on a farm. My wardrobe is now 95% jeans and farm-appropriate T-shirts.
“Did you see any other women getting special treatment?” Dean asks.
“Well, no,” I admit, washing my hands so I can get back to prepping the vegetables. “But I wasn’t paying much attention, either.”
“I guarantee old Wallace has a crush on you.” Dean leans against the counter, watching me as I cut off the ends of the green beans.
“Pfft. Whatever.” I slap his hand when he reaches out to steal one of the cut beans.
“Watch. Next time you go there, I bet you’ll get another exclusive deal.”
“Wanna bet on it?” I ask, hands on hips, staring up into his mischievous gray eyes.
“Sure,” Dean says, squaring off against me, folding his arms, and gazing down at my face with a mocking expression. “Fifty dollars?”
“Deal.”
When we shake hands, a pulse of electricity shoots up my arm.
I look for evidence that he’s experiencing the same thing, but I can’t see any dead giveaways. What am I thinking? Dean Cornel is not crushing on me. No way.
“Anyway,” I wipe my hands on my apron, “would you mind peeling the potatoes?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dean agrees. “Where’s the peeler?” He’s looking around the kitchen like he’s expecting it to jump out at him.
“It should be in that drawer.” I point to the one under the microwave.
“Ah! Got it.”
“And can you cut them into cubes, too?”
“Sure,” Dean agrees.
I pull a knife out of our block and hand it to him. “You know how to use this, right?”
He laughs. “Shut up.”
“I was just making sure,” I raise my hands in defense. “I’m still a lawyer, you know. I don’t want to have to eviscerate you in court because you accidentally cut yourself at my home.”
“I’ve got everything covered.” Dean gently pushes me back to my side of the kitchen. “Just focus on those pig loins there.”
