The answer was that Callanused to cook. I'd always been more of a takeout person. But how hard could it be? I grabbed ingredients for pasta with vegetables. Even I couldn't mess up boiling pasta.
By six-thirty, I was back at Dawson's house with bags of groceries and brimming with confidence.
"Need help?" He appeared in the kitchen doorway as I unpacked.
"Nope. I've got this. You relax." I pulled out a pot. "Go watch TV or something."
"I don't really watch TV."
"Then go stare at weather models."
He laughed, and the sound did something warm to my insides. "Okay. But if you need anything, let me know."
"I'll let you know."
He disappeared, and I got to work. The pasta went in the pot. That part was easy. I'd bought pre-cut vegetables so that was also manageable. I threw them in a pan with olive oil and turned up the heat.
Damn, the vegetables were smoking. Apparently, high heat was not the right choice. I turned it down, but by then they were already slightly charred on one side. Then I realized I hadn't started boiling the water for the pasta. I'd filled the pot but forgotten to turn on the burner.
Dawson popped his head into the kitchen asking if I needed help but I shooed him away. He cast a worried glance over my efforts before leaving.
I tried to make a simple garlic butter sauce except I turned the heat too high, and the butter burned and the garlic turnedblack as smoke filled the kitchen. Sweet coated my brow from the heat and stress.
The smoke alarm went off and Dawson appeared in the doorway. He took one look at the mess and started laughing. He was really laughing and not just that corner-mouth-twitch thing.
"It's fine!" I waved a towel at the smoke alarm. "Everything's under control!"
"Your vegetables are on fire."
He was right. Small flames were licking up from the charred vegetables.
"Okay, maybe not completely under control."
Dawson turned off the burners, and opened the windows and the smoke alarm stopped wailing. In the silence, I surveyed the disaster I'd created. There were burnt vegetables, blackened garlic, and pasta sitting dry in the pot.
"I can't cook," I admitted.
"I noticed." But he was smiling, and I took note of how his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Why did you offer to make dinner if you can't cook?"
"Because I wanted to do something nice for you." I waved my hands at the ruined food. "This was supposed to be romantic."
"It is." He moved closer, until we were standing in the middle of his smoky kitchen, surrounded by my culinary failures. "You tried to cook for me even though you knew you'd probably set something on fire."
"That's not romantic. That's just ridiculous."
"It's both." He cupped my cheek and his hand lingered on my skin before brushing off whatever was there. "And I think it might be the nicest thing anyone's ever tried to do for me."
We were close enough that I could see the flecks of hazel in his green eyes and feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he whispered. "If that's okay."
I nodded as I was unable to form any words.
He closed the distance between us and his lips met mine in a soft kiss. I made a small sound in the back of my throat and leaned into him while my hands came up to grip his shoulders.
The kiss deepened, and I wasn't thinking about burnt vegetables or smoke alarms or anything except the way Dawson tasted like coffee and how his hands settled on my hips as if they belonged there.
When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing hard, and he rested his forehead against mine.
