Page 36 of Just Ten Seconds

“The house is beautiful. I like the decor. It’s very”—I search for the right word—“clean.”

“You can say it.”

I turn at his comment and tilt my head.

“It’s boring. This is a model home. I bring buyers in here to show them the craftsmanship. I want them to be able to imagine themselves here instead of feeling like they’ve walked into someone else’s home. When the project is finished, I’ll probably sell this one too.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs as he stirs.

I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment I feel at that thought.

“I’m staying in Warwick though. I have Amanda in school, and I don’t want to relocate her again.”

A relieved pop of air escapes my lips. “That’s a good idea.”

“There’s some land I’m surveying now. Could be good for another development.”

I walk back over to the spot by the stove and watch as he browns the sausage. “You’re quite the tycoon.”

“Just keeping busy.” He winks. “Pass me the oil.”

There’s a glass bottle with a silver sifter at the top, and I hand it to him. He pours a little in and then walks over to the sink where his cleaned escarole is sitting in a colander. He adds the escarole and gives it a stir.

“My landlady makes this a lot. Are you Italian?”

“Half-Italian, half-Portuguese.”

That explains the perfectly bronzed skin during autumn in New York.

“I love Portugal.”

“You’ve been?”

“To Funchal in the Madeira archipelago,” I say a little too dreamily. “The cathedral and museums are just stunning, and the gorgeous hillsides you can see from the cable car overlooking Monte are serene. I could spend hours in the botanical gardens and never get bored.”

“You’re well traveled.”

I shrug it off. “Just a few places.”

“Multidimensional,” he says to himself as he looks back down at the pot.

Walking closer, I peek at the sausage browning. “Do you make a lot of Portuguese dishes?”

“I whip up an outstanding pato à moda da Beira Baixa,” he says in a smooth Portuguese accent I haven’t heard from him before.

I tilt my head to the side, having never heard of that before.

“Duck rice.”

I lean back and scrunch my nose. “That sounds awful.”

He laughs, and I feel it down to my toes. A man’s laughter shouldn’t travel that far. It could be dangerous to a woman’s heart.

“I can also make feijoada, which is pig hocks, knuckles, and ears.”

I hold my hands up with a giggle. “Duck rice sounds good.”