Laughing at her comment about how her Dad preferred his steak, Anton said, “That’s funny, as my Dad liked his steak that way, too. He liked to say,<i>Just wave it at the frying pan and it was perfect. </i>I, on the other hand, enjoy mine like my Mom: Well-done.” For emphasis, he held up his right hand, index finger and thumb a gnat’s ass away from touching, and then stated, “Just a wee bit of pink, and with those burnt edges. . . .” His voice trailed off as he then made smacking noises with his lips. “Damn, I think I want one right now,” he said with a chuckle.<br/><br/>He would have to think about her choices for salad dressing. Although they all sounded divine, Anton wished to carefully consider which one would go best with the meal he was planning. Stella removed all pressure from making a choice now, as she handed him a sticky note with her phone number scrawled on it. This allowed him some time to think it over before making his decision.<br/><br/>Anton smiled at her assessment of Tesla and his door, and he didn’t doubt her one bit. Following her to the door, he had to scoop up Licorice as she must have suspected what was transpiring. Obviously, she didn’t want her playmate to leave. Not yet, anyway. Or more than likely, EVER! He waited until she and her cat disappeared into the stairwell. Back inside, he locked up and put Licorice on the floor. And then he caught an earful of kitty displeasure.<br/><br/>Ignoring her for a moment, he glanced at the sticky. Ah crap, he thought, the dreaded phone number. Anton was never quite positive about what to do with a woman’s phone number, especially when it was never requested in the first place. Did they really expect him to call? And if he didn’t, he felt bad about it, as he always put himself in their place. With Evangeline around, this was never an issue. And therein lies the rub:<i>With Evangeline around.</i><br/><br/>This situation with Stella had to be different. He wasn’t under the impression that she was coming on to him; she simply offered her number to confirm his choice of salad dressing. You’re overthinking this, dumbass, he thought. Now in the kitchen, he stuck the note to the fridge and wrote under her number,<i>medium-well. </i>With an ice-cold bottle of IPA in hand, he moved to the couch to comfort Licorice. Perhaps some kitty treats would appease her. Perhaps they were soon to enjoy a concert.