“Will you go to a cooking class with me?”
It’s the first thing Buck’s said in at least an hour, which is strange in itself. That the invitation’s low and hoarse like it’s been forcibly squeezed out of his throat makes Eddie lift a confused brow, once he glances up and realizes Buck is indeed talking to him—and blushing, and white-knuckling his phone in both hands.
Eddie can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Buck blush. He’s not sure if it’s concerning or suspicious or both. Neither concern nor suspicion would be enough to make him disagree anyway, so he just shrugs. “Sure. When?” he asks.
“Yeah, all right. I think I’m fr—“
“You are,” Buck interrupts. “I—I checked your calendar.”
Right. Probably when he came over yesterday. They tried watching a movie but Buck fell asleep halfway through it, drooled all over Eddie’s shoulder. “We’re not cooking something weird, right?”
“It’s—cooking with peas.”
“Okay.” Eddie’s mystified and has definitely tipped over into concern, trying to decipher whatever this is.
Buck, for his part, is still going: “Yeah. Peas and other seasonal produce, like—onions and, uh, I—I think rhubarb.”
“You like all those things,” Eddie says.
“I—I do.” Buck ducks his chin. Eddie sits back, eyes narrowed.
“Buck,” he urges. “What’s wrong, man?”
“The class is for two people,” Buck says.
“Eddie.” He sounds strangled and appears desperate, possibly a little nauseous.
Eddie doesn’t understand until Buck takes this big, resigned breath and looks up at him from beneath his lashes. His heart lurches. It’s for two people. It’s a couples’ cooking class, and Buck wants him to go. “Oh,” he says, smiling, and Buck brightens.
“It’s a farm-to-table thing,” he says.
“That’s what I’m usually thinking about on a date,” Eddie says, hooking his ankle around Buck’s beneath the table. “Where the peas come from.”
