"It's efficient." He shrugs those impressive shoulders. "I don't see the point in cooking just for myself."
"The point is not dying of scurvy." I open his pantry, which isn't much better. A few cans of soup. Some protein bars. A lonely box of pasta. "This is sad. Deeply, deeply sad."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being a culinary school graduate looking at food crimes."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Well, you did say you were a chef. Prove it."
The challenge lights something in me. "With what? Air and expired condiments?"
"Main Street is ten minutes away." He reaches for his keys. "Let's go."
Twenty minutes later, we're back with bags full of fresh ingredients. I insisted on paying, pointing out that I'm essentially inviting myself over for dinner in his house. He relented after I reminded him we're supposed to be equals in this arrangement. But later he slipped the money back into my bag when I wasn’t looking.
I cook a simple but delicious pasta with a sauce I create from the limited pantry options and fresh ingredients we bought. His obvious appreciation as he takes the first bite makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
"So," I say as we settle at his small table with our food, "we need a story."
He raises an eyebrow. "A story?"
"Our love story." I twirl pasta around my fork. "People are going to ask how we got together. When we fell in love. All the details. We need to have our stories straight."
"Ah." Understanding dawns on his face. "The cover story."
"Exactly. We can't tell people we met two days ago when I proposed a marriage of convenience after you were harassed by my father."
He chuckles, the deep sound doing strange things to my insides. "Probably not the most romantic beginning."
"So let's create one." I sit forward, warming to the task. "How did we meet? When did we fall in love?"
Colt considers this, taking a sip of his water. "We could say we met when I was delivering a commission to the café where you work. You served me coffee, we got to talking."
"That's plausible," I nod. "And when did this fictional meeting happen?"
"Three months ago?" He suggests. "Long enough to be believable but short enough that we could have kept it quiet."
"Perfect." I'm impressed by his quick thinking. "So, I served you coffee, we talked, and then what? You asked me out?"
Something flashes in his eyes. "No. You asked me out."
"Me?" I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "Why would I be the one to make the first move?"
"Because you're fearless." His gray eyes hold mine, suddenly intense. "Because when you want something, you go after it without hesitation. Like you did on Main Street."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Fair point. So I asked you out. Where did we go on our first date?"
"My workshop." His answer comes without hesitation. "I showed you what I was working on. You were impressed."
"I would be," I admit, remembering the beautiful metalwork I saw that first day. "Then what?"
"Then I cooked you dinner."
I nearly choke on my water. "You cooked? Have you seen your kitchen?"
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "In this fictional scenario, I made an effort. Wanted to impress the beautiful woman who was brave enough to ask me out."
Beautiful.The casual compliment makes me smile.
