Page 7 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Well,” I said before stepping through the door, “if I don’t feel like having sex with something before this is over, I will be very upset.”

Realizing what I said, heat raced up my neck and I dashed through the door that Peter was still holding open for me. Unfazed, he laughed and ducked in behind me.

Holding doors was one of the ways in which Peter showed care. After lunch, he took us on a leisurely drive around the city, pointing out places of interest to me—which I stared at with awe as though I had never visited Earth before—before taking us to his house. The place I would be staying at for the length of my two-week visit. Peter parked his luxurious car in his equally impressive garage, grabbed my bags from the hatchback of his car, and led me to the backdoor of his home. Up a few steps, he held the door for me once again.

Though I was fully capable of doing such things for myself and prided myself on my independence and ability to take care of myself, Peter doing such things for me affected me in ways I had no words to explain. Never in my life had I wished for another man to behave as though I was incapable of something as simple as opening a door. However, when Peter did it, his charm easily conveyed that he was expressing his affection, not passing judgment on one’s ability. So, I felt I would never tire of his affections.

The backdoor of his home, a gorgeously renovated two-story American Craftsman, led into the kitchen. Taking in the sight of Peter’s kitchen made my eyes grow wide. I did my best to quickly correct myself as I took in the size of the room, its décor, and the appliances. Peter’s kitchen rivaled my entire apartment, and it was decidedly more luxurious. However, it occurred to me that Peter’s kitchen was probably not all that impressive for an American home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood.

As my eyes landed on the stove, I smiled. Eight gas burners—sparkling clean and obviously untouched for a while—greeted my eyes. If we went and purchased groceries the next day as Peter suggested, I would be able to cook delicious meals easily for him. The refrigerator dominated the corner of the room, but I did my best not to stare at its size.

Coffee maker. Toaster. Blender. Stand mixer. Microwave. Large center island on which to prepare ingredients for meals, make pasta or bread dough. A magnetic bar on the wall over the counter by the sink held a selection of knives. A variety of cooking instruments stood tall in a canister by the stove. A small table with four chairs. The multitude of cabinets surely held pots, pans, plates, cups, silverware—everything one would need for a meal.

Peter had everything a home chef would need.

“Your kitchen is nice,” I said over my shoulder as Peter stepped inside with my bags and shut the door gently behind him.

“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t use it much, but—”

“I can tell,” I teased.

“—but,” Peter nudged me playfully, “it should have anything you need while you’re here.”

“I am certain I will somehow manage, even if this is subpar at best,” I chuckled, my eyes still scanning the room.

Peter laughed appreciatively at my joke as he rolled my suitcase through the kitchen. I found myself unable to move from the backdoor, as though afraid I would stumble and break something. Or trip and scuff his beautiful wooden floor. When Peter reached the door that led out of the kitchen, he turned with a smile, which disappeared when he realized I wasn’t following him.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Enzo?”

“Your home is very nice,” I said, unsure of how else to explain myself.

Peter stared for a moment, then his expression softened.

“Please act like you’re in your own house,” Peter said. “This is your home for the next two weeks. You can use anything while you’re here. Eat anything. Drink anything. Enjoy yourself. Please. For me.”

Drawing in a deep breath, which I slowly let out, I managed a smile.

“I will do my best,” I said. “But if I break something—”

“It’ll be okay,” Peter said. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

He said: “I need to make a quick phone call to the office. Why don’t you show yourself around? Open doors. Inspect the place. Make sure I’m not a serial killer and hiding dead bodies or something?”

I laughed.

“Seriously, though,” he said. “Looking around while I’m not watching might make you feel more at home?”

“Maybe.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction he had been going.

“Dining room, living room, den, downstairs half-bathroom,” he said, before pointing behind me, “basement door—laundry’s down there. Pantry. My little office space. If you want to see the bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs, the stairs are off the living room in the entryway. Or you can take the ones behind you.”

My head jerked to look over my shoulder, then back at Peter.

“Two staircases?” I asked. “So fancy you are.”