Free The Kitchen Shrink by Dee Detarsio Page B

window as a focal point, sharing the same view as the living room. The cabinets were of a lighter wood, with no handles, streamlining the whole effect. Some of the upper cabinets had opaque glass fronts with soft light filtering through. “What are the countertops made of?”
    “I poured concrete and mixed several glazes to get that color.”
    “Just gorgeous,” I continued my rave. I ran my hand over the shimmering bronze-colored countertop. “It almost glows. I can’t believe this is concrete.”
    “Yep.”
    I was feeling so comfortable I went to the cabinets and rubbed my hand over the cool wood and opened a door. “Oh, my gosh!”
    “What?” he asked.
    “You alphabetize your cans?”
    “I just like things in their place. It’s part of being a carpenter, I guess. I like my stuff organized.”
    “If you say so,” I teased. “I don’t know many guys who take time to be this neat. I love it,” I added, in case he thought I was making fun of him or questioning his manhood. Which, believe me, was the farthest thing from my mind.
    “How about something to drink?” he asked, opening his stainless, of course, refrigerator door and trying to use his body to shield me from the contents.
    “Just some water for me, thanks. What have you got in there?” I stood on tiptoe and peeked over his shoulder. Oops, I had to grab onto his bicep. Sniff. Yum. Something fresh and muted and masculine, a complete XY saturation was hijacking my olfactory receptors. Nice. My son was going through a body spray phase that earned his sister a grounding when she kept complaining he smelled like ass. (I had misunderstood her; she actually said he smelled like Axe.) I didn’t bother to clear that up; she was annoying and Ryan was using too much.
    I peered into the refrigerator. Then I burst out laughing. His water bottles were marching in precision, trooped above his eggs, butter and milk. Exactly four beer bottles were squared off behind a lime. I had just enough time to glimpse a bottle of champagne, before he closed the door. No sticky rings of who knows what; no unidentifiable food objects.
    “Nice man-refrigerator. You sure you’re not married?” What must it be like to live so organized?
    He smiled and shook his head.
    “Housekeeper?”
    Another shake of his head.
    “Servant? Valet? Butler?” My eyes widened. No kids, that’s for sure.
    “Cut it out. Come on. Let me show you my bathroom.”
    “Ooh. Please, just have one balled up, smelly towel, and I’ll leave you alone. Were you expecting company or do you always live like this?”
    “Like what? I like things nice and neat,” he said, pulling me by his rough strong calloused Renaissance man hand.
    I shivered.
    We entered his bedroom but before I could get a good look he opened the door to his bathroom.
    “I could live in here. This is amazing.” I was afraid I was gushing again.
    “It’s Italian glass tile.”
    “It looks like it has gold in it.”
    “Yeah, I think there are some threads among the blues and greens.”
    “The lighting is so perfect in here, too.”
    “You can never overlook lighting when you’re working on a project. So many people don’t understand the importance of diffused lighting.”
    “You do,” I said, catching a quick glimpse of myself in the framed mirror above the vanity. Looking pretty good, I thought. It’s amazing what a little alcohol, a throbbing motorcycle ride with an adorable Adonis and good lighting can do. I smiled at my reflection and then reached for his medicine cabinet.
    “I can’t help it,” I added. “I’ve just got to see.” I reached for the door of the cabinet next to and flush with the mirror.
    “No,” he tried to stop me, putting both arms around me from behind, but I pulled the door open.
    “OK,” I said, looking at his graduated sizes of skin care products and shampoos. “You color-coordinated your bath stuff? That does it. You are one chromosome away from a gay man.”
    Phil-O just laughed and