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“Well, I’m making my gnocchi if you want some,” I said.
“Gnocchi?!” Noah said, his eyes widening with the temptation.
I narrowed my eyes and tried not to grin. He’d have to turn it down. His need to be polite wouldn’t let him accept my offer.
There was a sick part of me that enjoyed this. Pressing him to the bottom of the pan and hearing him sizzle. I could practicallyhearhis mouth watering.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass,” he said gravely.
“Really?” Grace asked.
I wanted to storm off to my room and slam the door behind me like a pouting teenager. I could tell from Grace’s voice that she wanted nothing more than to go with him; run off with Mr. Perfect on his white horse again, leaving me with my sad potatoes.
“Yeah,” Noah said, shutting his laptop with a clean, controlledthluck. “I’mgonna head to Lydia’s afterward, too. Hang out for a bit. I won’t be home until nine or so.”
Was it possible to hate someone and appreciate everything about them at the same time? Because if so, that’s exactly what I was feeling. “Good shit, bruh. See you later.”
“Cool cool. I’ll head out in a min, just gotta grab my stuff.”
Noah disappeared into his room and some of the tension went away.
Grace walked over to the barstools and sat at the counter, looking at me with a happy little smile on her face while I opened the fridge.
“So tell me about this famous gnocchi,” she said, resting her head in her hands, looking like the cutest goddamn thing that ever lived.
Maybe everything was all right. Maybe everything I’d just witnessed between her, me, and Noah was just my imagination. Maybe I didn’t fuck up in the car as much as I’d thought.
“Well, it comes out a little different every time,” I began, plucking the carton of heavy cream out of the fridge.
“You don’t follow a recipe?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Well, what if you forget something? How do you know what to do, when? How long to put things in for?”
I laughed. “If I mess up, it’ll still turn out all right. Let me guess—you’re more of a baker?”
“How did you know?” she asked with a cute little smile.
“‘Cuz. Baking requires things to be exact. Carefully planned. Orderly. Controlled. Sounds like someone in this room, and it isn’t me.”
“It’s me!” Noah cried from the other room.
Grace giggled.
Fuck.
“Well, I’ve always been more of a cook,” I explained, trying to sound unbothered.
Noah chimed in again. “Don’t buy it. The dude’s a prodigy chef.”
“That’s a stretch,” I said as I cracked an egg.
“Modesty sounds weird on you,” Noah said through the walls. “Just own up to it.”
I let out a sigh and put both hands on the counter. “Okay, fine. Imayknow my way around the kitchen.”
“I’m honored to experience the work of a prodigy,” Grace teased. “You’re bad at managing expectations, though. Now I’m expecting the Sistine Chapel ceiling on my plate.”
