Mac barks out a laugh. “I don’t know whether to be offended you thought I lived in squalor or proud that I’ve met your standards,” he says.
“The second one. Definitely the second one.”
We beam at each other like a couple of idiots. I swear if the lights were turned off we’d glow in the dark. Mac is the first to break. I could have stared at him all night.
“So, what’s for dinner?” I ask, joining him in the kitchen. On the stove are two pots, a simmering sauce in one and barely boiling water in the other.
“Spaghetti, and I’ve got a salad and some garlic bread.”
Mac gestures to the counter where, sure enough, there’s a large bowl holding Caesar salad with what looks like homemade croutons. Unbaked garlic bread waits on the counter next to the salad bowl, and my mouth starts to water.
“Garlic bread? I hope you didn’t expect me to kiss you very much tonight,” I tease.
“Kissing! Jessica Matthews, this is study time, not sexy study time.” He grins at me, and every organ in my body rearranges itself.
“Are those homemade noodles?” I point to the bowl of uncooked noodles sitting near the stove.
“They are,” he says, his back to me. When he turns around he’s got a spoon with some sauce on it. “Here—taste.” Mac offers me the spoon, holding it like he’s going to feed me.
I stare at him for just a beat, asking with my eyes if he really intends to feed me. He just moves the spoon a little closer to my mouth. I accept, closing my eyes against an onslaught of flavor. It tastes exactly the way it smelled, like someone went out to the garden this morning and picked every ingredient right from the backyard.
“That is delicious. You’ve got to be the only college student who actually knows how to cook.”
“My mom is a great cook, as you may remember from Thanksgiving. I learned a lot from her. Plus, you can only eat so much caf food.”
“Oh my gosh, is this Frodo?” I reach past Mac to a shelf holding a jar filled with white, bubbly liquid.
He smiles, proud as any sourdough daddy. I take a tentative whiff, the sweet, fermented, yeasty dough a feast for my senses. I can’t even pretend not to be impressed. He’s a great cook, a talented baker, he’s smart and funny, and he keeps his apartment clean. He’s almost too good to be true. I can’t believe it took me so long to notice.
“Yes. And the garlic bread tonight is courtesy of that guy.” Mac points to the jar.
“How much time did you spend today prepping for this meal?” I ask, replacing his jar of starter.
“I’ll never say.”
There’s a slight blush to his cheeks, and I find all of this so endearing—the fact that he’s blushing, the time he spent prepping this meal for me. I could scream with how much I like this guy. Why did I ever hate him?
I lean against the counter and watch as he finishes the meal, putting the bread in the oven right before he dunks the noodles in the water. Somehow all of it finishes at exactly the right time, and then the smell of fresh bread and garlic just about brings me to my knees.
“Go sit. I’ll bring your food over,” Mac says.
“I don’t mind,” I say and reach for the plates, but Mac gently grabs my wrists, guiding my arms back down to my sides.
“Let me.” His tone is firm but kind. It’s not a suggestion, and when he gestures to a small dining table tucked against a wall between the living room and kitchen, I nod and take a seat without another word.
“I would offer you wine, but I figured we should maybe wait until after we’ve done some of the coding,” Mac says as he sets down two plates of food and takes the seat across from me. He pulls out his phone and clicks around until the soft sounds of Black Phantom float through a Bluetooth speaker sitting on his kitchen counter.
Dinner is a quiet affair, with just the music and the sound of us eating. But it’s a comfortable quiet, like this is how Mac and I spend all of our Sunday evenings. I wonder if this is how we’ll really spend all of our Sunday evenings. Flirting in the kitchen, me letting him cook for us, working on homework. I mull the idea over, trying to resist the smile I feel tugging at my lips. How is it that two months ago I could barely stand the guy, and now I’m at his house having dinner, picturing a life as his girlfriend?
“What’s got you smiling?” Mac asks.
I thought I was hiding my smile okay, but apparently I’m easier to read than I thought I was.
“I was just thinking what it might be like if we did this more often,” I say. It’s all I’m brave enough to say.
“I’d like that,” he says with no hesitation. “And I’ll take that as a compliment to my cooking.”
“It’s a compliment to the cooking, to the company, to the vibes.”
