It fell to my knees and the belt tied at the waist.
I followed the sounds coming from the kitchen. He was cooking.
"You can sit down," he said without turning around.
"Staring is optional."
"How did you know I was staring?"
"You breathe differently when you’re watching me."
I had no comeback for that. None. The man had just told me he could identify me by my breathing patterns and I was supposed to form a sentence? I pulled the robe tighter, which was stupid because it was already tied, and sat at the table.
He turned with the pan. His eyes found me, and I watched them travel. My face. The robe. My bare collarbone. My wet hair loose on my shoulders.
Back to my face. The whole trip took two seconds and his demeanor seemed less hostile than before.
Or I imagined it. I was probably imagining it.
He served dinner. Salmon with a herb crust, roasted vegetables. He set the plate in front of me and sat across the table and we ate.
The food was so delicious, it made you want to close your eyes on the first bite because your mouth needs a moment. I looked at him across the table.
"This is incredible," I said.
He glanced at me over his glass. "You sound surprised."
"I am surprised. You won’t touch a door handle but you can make salmon that tastes like this?"
"Cooking is controlled. Every variable is measurable. Temperature, timing, ratios." He cut into his fish. "It’s the one domestic task that makes sense to me."
"So you’re telling me that calculating everything made you a better cook."
"I’m telling you that precision has applications beyond hygiene."
"Where did you learn to cook like this?"
He was quiet for a moment, then took a sip of water. "My grandmother. In London. She had a theory that any man who couldn't feed himself was only half a man."
His tone loosened. Something in his shoulders did too.
"I could only eat food that I participated in making, that way I could ensure it's clean. I was nine. She gave me a stool to reach the counter and a wooden spoon and told me we were making shepherd's pie and if I got it wrong she'd make me eat it anyway."
I smiled. "Did you get it wrong?"
"Catastrophically. The mashed potato was the consistency of wallpaper paste and I burned the mince." He turned the glass slowly in his hand. "She ate every bite and told me it was the finest shepherd's pie in London." A pause. His voice went quieter. "It wasn't. It was genuinely terrible. But she ate it. All of it."
His eyes had gone soft in a way I hadn't seen before. Tender and far away, like he was looking at something only he could still see.
"She sounds wonderful," I said.
"She was." Past tense. I noted it but didn’t push.
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the rain steady on the roof, wind pressing against the windows, and the warmth of the food and the cabin pulling everything closer until I noticed I'd stopped sitting up straight and my shoulder was almost touching his. I didn't fix it. Something about the quiet had loosened my guard without asking permission, and by the time I noticed, I didn't want it back.
"I dated someone," I said. The words came out before I’d fully decided to say them. "Back in Charlotte. An actor. Famous enough that you’d know his name if I said it."
He set his fork down, giving me his full attention. Those gray eyes without the glasses made me feel like he would understand.
