“I like to keep you guessing.”
The air between us hummed the way it always did—too aware, too charged, too impossible to ignore.
“Okay,” she said, leaning against the counter beside me, her arms crossed. “Impress me. What’s the grand plan here, chef?”
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, then reached for the salt. “Simple. Salt, pepper, lemon. You let the salmon speak for itself.”
“Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. “And does the fish also pay rent?”
“No, but if it tastes good enough, maybe I can.”
That earned me a sharp look that melted into a reluctant laugh. “Smooth. But you’re still washing the dishes.”
“As you wish.”
“Wait.” She studied me. “You like that movie too?”
“How could I not?” I winked at her as her walls started crumbling more and more.
She snickered, shaking her head as wheels kept spinning.
I worked quietly for a few minutes, sliding the salmon skin-side down, the scent of butter and lemon filling the space as I put in to broil. Melanie turned the radio on low.
“You do this a lot?” she asked, watching me open the oven and move the salmon.
“Cook?”
“No,” she said dryly. “Drive halfway across the state for a woman and then commandeer her kitchen like you own the place.”
I smiled without looking up. “Depends on the woman.”
She let out a soft, breathy laugh that made my hands falter just a little.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said again, but it was softer this time. More like she didn’t mean it.
I plated the salmon and handed her a fork. “Taste test.”
She gave me a skeptical look, but the second the bite hit her tongue, her expression changed—her eyes widened, her lips parted, and I swear every neuron in my body woke up just to pay attention.
“Holy—” She took another bite, smaller this time, as if to confirm. “Okay, fine. You win.”
“I always do,” I said lightly, though I was already burning alive just from watching her lick lemon butter off her lip.
“Cocky much?” she teased.
“Confident,” I corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not when I’m right.”
She rolled her eyes and turned toward the table, but I caught the flush in her cheeks before she hid it. I grabbed the plates and followed her, setting them down at a small table.
She’d already lit a candle, and I couldn’t tell if she’d meant it to be romantic or if she just liked nice lighting.
Either way, it worked.
We ate mostly in silence for the first few minutes, both pretending the air wasn’t electric. Every time her knee brushed mine under the table, my pulse kicked like a misfired engine. Every time she smiled, it hit me how easy this felt—even in the middle of her sleek, city apartment, I didn’t feel like the country boy who didn’t belong. I just felt like me. Like her and me made sense.
