“Chorizo and chickpeas, some cubed potatoes with a few spices, and a hot green olive vinaigrette.” He pointed at one pan. “And this”-he jabbed his knife at the other pan- “is Gambas al Ajillo, Spanish shrimp. It should have garlic, but in the interests of not offending you, I left it out, but there’s some bay leaf, chili pepper, olive oil, and shrimp, of course, served with that crusty bread over there.” He nodded at an earthenware platter. “Pour yourself a glass of champagne and get two forks from that drawer”-he jabbed his thumb sideways-“while I get this food on some plates.” Opening the door on one of three waist-high ovens, he drew out a sheet pan of toasted tortillas and proceeded to break them into pieces. Setting a bowl of freshly made, chunky tomatillo salsa on a platter, he surrounded the bowl with the hot tortilla chips, briskly shoved it aside and, lifting the steaming pan of shrimp from the burner, piled the contents on another plate in a perfect mound. The chorizo dish was assembled as quickly. “After you,” he said with a smile, tucking the champagne bottle under one arm, arranging two platters on the same arm, picking up the tomatillo plate and two cloth napkins with his other hand. “I make a great steak-frites, too, if you feel like it later.”

“Are you kidding? I won’t be able to move after all this food.”

“Then feel free to lie there and think of England.”

“No joke. I might take you up on that.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“You’re way too accommodating. You must have to kick women out afterward. Between your great cooking and fabulous dick, I doubt anyone wants to leave.”

Avoiding a reply to the kicking-women-out remark, which hit damn close to home, he said, “Actually, I don’t often cook… at times like this.” He politely chose the bland phrase. “I was just hungry.” He wasn’t about to admit to either her or himself that having her stay might have figured in his decision to cook.