“Ooooh,” I say, darting for one of the indigo throw pillows on his pale gray sofa. I snatch it and start after him, but he’s already ducking through the doorway, laughing. I chase him through a sunny dining room, too intent on getting him back to absorb the details, but in the next room, I stop short, the chase forgotten.
We have entered the kitchen. Calling it a home kitchen is like saying Notre Dame is a church. This gleaming space is the cathedral of home kitchens, gleaming copper pans hanging from a rack over—what else—an enormous Viking range.
The hand wielding the pillow falls to my side, and I turn in big-eyed silence, devouring every detail.
“You like it?” he asks. His eyes are on me, intent.
I only nod and keep turning. I can’t wait to explore his built-ins and investigate his pantry. It’s probably organized with brilliant Scandinavian efficiency. “Yeah, I like it.”
I drop the pillow and trail my fingers over the blue enamel knobs of the Viking.Oh, my precious. My cheeks heat even though I wasn’t dumb enough to say it out loud.
“I’ll put Speckles in here until you need him.” He opens a birch panel to reveal a fridge I will fantasize about tonight. I know it. “Let me know what else you need but explore wherever. If I don’t have something here, I can ask Lisa to send Kylie or Jared over with it.”
“Point me to your pantry and be warned I can and will make myself at home in any kitchen.”
“Good. I want you to. Pantry is over there.” He points to a door. “Is it going to make you uncomfortable if I hang out here while you cook?”
“No. Do you still suck in the kitchen?” He’d always floundered when his cabin had dinner shift.
“Not as much,” he says, smiling. “You want a sous chef?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know. Do I?”
Instead of answering, he goes to a wooden bowl on the windowsill above the sink and pulls out a tomato. He’s already scored points by not keeping it in the fridge. If Rachael Ray is known for her deep love of EVOO, my viewers know me for my constant pleas to store their produce correctly.
Next, he pulls a Wusthof chef’s knife from a knife block that is a work of art in itself, grabs a bamboo chopping board, and sets the tomato on it. His movements are relaxed.
I note how easily he finds everything, how he holds the tomato with his fingers tucked under like a trained chef would and begins to slice, his knife so sharp it slides through without any mushing.
I’m going to swoon.
“How about if I make a salad while you do your thing?” he asks. “That way I’m out of your hair.”
A laugh lurks below those words. He has clearly acquired superior kitchen skills in the last decade. Not superior to mine but better than he has any right to be without training.
“Got any other cool tricks I should know about?” I ask.
He meets my eyes—his in an unmistakably heavy-lidded sexy smolder—and gives me his half smile. “A few.” Then he goes back to slicing.
He—
What—
I…
I turn and bump into a cabinet and throw a quick glance back to see if he noticed. He’s concentrating on his tomato, but when I turn around again, I swear I hear a single, soft laugh.
I add it to the list of things I owe him payback for, a plan taking shape in my mind.
He’s got game now, it’s true. But so do I.
An hour later, I serve him a fish that once inspired a minor sultan of Oman to propose marriage, but I’d passed. He’d sent me a divine Balenciaga bag the next week as a sign of his gratitude. I’m not even a handbag girl, but no lie, that bag made me understand the obsession.
“It smells amazing, which is not a thing I usually say about fish,” he says.
He’s set the table at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, and I’m glad. I don’t want to be in a formal dining room with him. I want it cozy, even if this kitchen is twice the size of my generous kitchen in Brooklyn.
I’ve plated our dinners already, his salad fresh and bright beside the fish and pilaf I made.
