The rice is nearly done. I add a knob of butter, letting it melt into the creamy mixture before folding in the mushrooms and a handful of fresh herbs. The kitchen fills with the rich aroma of wine and stock and thyme.
"That smells amazing," Wren admits, leaning forward to look into the pan.
"Don't sound so shocked." I nudge her leg with my elbow and there it is again, that little spark where we touch. "I do occasionally know what I'm doing."
"Occasionally being the operative word." But there's no bite to it, just a little grin that’s all trouble.
I dish up two plates, adding a sprinkle of parmesan to each. Wren slides off the counter and moves to the dining table, where I've already set water glasses and napkins.
"This feels weird," she says as we sit across from each other. "Like we're playing house or something."
"It's just dinner, Pink." I know the nickname annoys her, but it slips out anyway. I can’t help it and honestly, I don’t want to. Say what you want about what we’re going through, but getting under her skin is still one of my favorite things. Maybe just in a different way now.
She narrows her eyes at me. "Call me that again and I'll put this risotto somewhere very uncomfortable for you."
I grin. "Noted."
She takes a bite, her eyes widening. "Holy shit, this is actually good."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming."
"Well, you've never given me reason to believe you could cook." She takes another bite. "What other hidden talents are you hiding behind that grumpy exterior?"
"If I told you, they wouldn't be hidden. And I’m not grumpy."
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the small smile she tries to hide behind her water glass. Something loosens in my chest. Maybe this won't be a complete disaster after all.
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of forks against plates and the soft music playing from the speaker on the kitchen counter—one of my playlists I put on without thinking.
"So," Wren says after a while, breaking the silence. "What are the house rules? Besides the ones I already laid out."
"House rules?" I shrug. "Don't burn the place down? Clean up after yourself? I'm not big on micromanaging."
"Says the man who just deep cleaned every surface in this house." Her gaze is knowing, a little smug.
"That's different," I mutter, focusing on my plate. "I wanted to make sure you didn't have another reason to complain about living here. I’m easy to live with."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"What about you? Any roommate habits I should know about? Sleepwalking? Snoring? Secret passion for blasting death metal?"
She laughs, the sound surprising both of us. "No death metal. I do tend to work late, though. And I'm not exactly a morning person."
"Noted. I'll try to keep the power tools to a minimum before noon."
"Power tools?"
I gesture toward the back of the house. "I have a workshop in the basement. I build furniture sometimes. When I need to think or work through things."
Her expression turns thoughtful. "Huh. I had no idea you had more to your personality than making beer. You remind me of that guy Teddy fromBrooklyn Nine-Ninewho’s obsessed with Pilsners andsoboring.”
I glare at her, gritting my teeth. "I think we both know hownotboring I can be, but if you need a reminder of all the other things I’m good at, I’d be happy to provide one.”
She just grins and takes another bite of her dinner.
“Not everything's about the brewery,” I feel the need to add for some reason. Why do I care that she sees there’s more to me?
"Could've fooled me." She sets down her fork, her expression shifting to something more guarded. "Speaking of which, we should probably talk about how this is going to work. Professionally, I mean."
