He gave me his uneven grin and muttered, “Lookin’ forward to that.” His attention went to the back door, came again to me, and he said, “I’ll be back.”

I watched him disappear before I went to the Crock-Pot and took the top off.

But I didn’t immediately dig in to separate the meat.

I looked out the window and watched Johnny saunter in his faded jeans, which fit somewhat loose just hinting at all the goodness they covered, and dusty boots, but he’d put on a denim shirt, which was a nice touch. It said he was coming over to a woman’s house for dinner and he made the kind of effort the kind of man Johnny Gamble was would make, but he wasn’t going to show in a T-shirt.

I also watched when he stopped to welcome both dogs with firm rubdowns when they found him, and I kept watching as he carried on his way, the dogs dancing beside him, toward the stables.

I did this thinking it took me from probably fifteen to thirty minutes to get the horses inside and settled in for the night, depending on how cooperative Serengeti felt like being.

So I did this thinking that if there was a Johnny-type figure in my life, it would be really nice.

I loved my horses and never thought a second about the time it took to take care of them.

But having someone help would be lovely.

I’d never lived with Kent. Perhaps subconsciously knowing something wasn’t right about him, and Charlie stating about two months into the relationship, “Sorry, Iz, there’s just something off about that guy,” made me cautious. But even though we’d been together for over a year, we never took it to that place.

I’d never taken it to that place with any guy, not Kent, not the two longish-term boyfriends I’d had before him.

Maybe I’d find someone like Johnny who knew how to deal with horses.

Maybe I’d find someone who wouldn’t mind throwing in a load of laundry too.

And maybe I’d find someone who also wouldn’t mind throwing it in the dryer and folding it after.

Or someone who didn’t mind vacuuming the floors.

Whatever it was, even before I struck out on my own, with Mom working all the time and my sister a crazy person, from before the time I really should have been taking it on, I took on the bulk of the responsibilities of running a house with people and animals in it.

It would be pretty amazing to have someone help shoulder the chores.

Johnny and the dogs had disappeared into the stables when I realized ruminating on this wasn’t getting the chicken separated.

Fortunately, it fell apart easily like it always did after cooking all day.

And fortunately, I had the corn tortillas already cut, the real English cheddar already grated and the olives already drained so I could toss them in, stir them up, sprinkle more cheese and olives on top and then put the lid back on for it to finish its magic.

I got the black beans out, opened them up and poured them in a pot on the stove, ready to heat up before I dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to change clothes so I didn’t have to do that when Johnny was around.

He could chat with me while I made guacamole. But after he’d waited for me to arrive, I didn’t want to make him hang alone while I changed clothes.

I’d mentally planned my outfit so it took no time at all to get rid of the trousers, blouse and pumps and put on a pair of crop boyfriend jeans with wide cuffs and the green printed blouse with its cute, ruffle, barely-there sleeves.

I took off my gold bangles, my slim watch, left in my gold studs, and went barefoot down the stairs, lifting my hair in order to fashion a band around it in a big messy topknot.

I hit the kitchen and looked out the window, not seeing Johnny. I considered going out to check on him but instead decided to give him time and I grabbed the avocados.

I started on the dip, my eyes straying to the window often, so I saw it when, not five minutes later, Johnny and my dogs ambled out of the stables.

It was then I realized I liked the way he walked. There was a confident, masculine grace to it. He just was who he was. He looked the way he looked. He moved the way he moved. The fact that all of that was amazing didn’t factor to him.

It was just . . .

Him.

I’d scooped out the avocados and thrown in some salt and was mincing the onion along with the cilantro and chilies when Johnny and the dogs walked in.

“Serengeti felt like being a diva,” I guessed, looking over my shoulder at him and in the process of mincing, so I just swayed my legs against their bodies to say hi to my dogs when they came to say hi to me.

“Your dogs like strangers. Your palomino, not so much,” he answered.

“No, she does, when she feels like doing it. She just felt like being a diva tonight.”

He gave me an amused look and headed to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

“I don’t drink beer. But there’s an open bottle of white in there. If you could pour me some of that. Wineglasses are over there.” I jerked my head to the opposite wall.

“Gotcha,” he muttered.

“This won’t take long, and then we’ll sit out on the back porch and munch while the enchiladas finish up.”

“You gonna make me eat vegetables?” he asked.

I smiled at him. “You’re a big boy, not sure I can make you do anything, but I am making a big salad. If you don’t want any of it, I won’t be offended.”

“We’ll test it and see if my body will accept something healthy fed to it.”

I laughed softly, decided against chiding him because I knew intimately that somehow he took care of that body or it wouldn’t be the body it was, and went back to my guac.

I was squirting the lime juice in in preparation for mixing when Johnny remarked from behind me, “Sweet kitchen.”

I looked over my shoulder at him to see him leaning in a hand on my island, a beer bottle in his other hand, his attention to me.

“Luckily it mostly came this way. I put the farm sink in, got a deal on the marble countertops because some lady ordered them and then decided she didn’t want them. Other than that, I just painted, put some new handles on and voilà.”

“It’s sweet. It’s cute. It’s you. But I feel my balls shrinking just standing here.”

My body jolted and I burst out laughing, doing it looking at the cream painted cupboards, the green glass handles and knobs, knowing below the sink was a fabric curtain of roses and leaves against a cream background. There was a narrow flowery print over the window that was above the sink. There were shelves around the sink with the green milk glass pieces I’d inherited from Mom (who inherited them from her mom) with others I’d been picking up for years, intermingled with pink. Even my KitchenAid mixer was mint green. All the rest was cream or elaborate wire. And definitely every inch of it was feminine.

“I’ll be done in a second and we’ll get you out of the danger zone and on the back porch.”

“Babe, your back porch looks more comfortable than my living room. There are more pillows on that loveseat out there than on my bed. You even got a lamp out there.”

“I like to be comfy,” I told the guacamole.

“I’d hazard a guess you succeeded in fulfilling this desire.”

I again laughed softly then moved to the cupboard to pull down my chips and salsa bowl.

“You can go on out,” I told him. “I’ll dish this up and pour out the chips, and I’ll be out in two seconds.”

“Got your wine,” he replied.