I laugh, poking the veggies with my fork. “You sure have strong opinions about food, Mase. First ranch, now pesto.”
“I’m passionate,” he defends. “And that shitlooks radioactive.”
I pout. “Don’t be mean. I made this from scratch.”
He gawks at me. “Youmadethat?”
A small smile tugs on my lips. “Yeah. I love cooking.”
“I’m a terrible cook,” Mason grunts. “Most nights, Maddie and I just eat frozen pizzas or chicken nuggets.”
I grimace. “Ugh, gross. You should let me cook for you sometime.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You’ll force me to eat vegetables.”
I giggle and nudge his shoulder playfully. “A little fiber won’t kill you.”
He chews his sandwich thoughtfully. “Tell you what—find a recipe that includes ranch, and I’ll let you cook for me tonight. Candlelight, tablecloth, the works.”
I grin. “Oh, you’llletme?”
“Yes. I’m a very generous guy.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And what’s in it for me?”
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and leans in, lips ghosting over my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’ll bring the dessert.”
Chapter Nineteen
I plop down on a barstool at the kitchen island, a stack of vegetarian cookbooks fanned out in front of me. My finger trails down recipe titles—chickpea stew, lentil burgers, grilled portobello wraps—until I spot one that makes me smirk.
Fried cauliflower wings with homemade ranch dipping sauce. Perfect.
I haul myself up and start grabbing ingredients from the fridge and cupboards. Flour, spices, buttermilk, cauliflower florets. The counter quickly becomes a mess of bowls and cutting boards. I fall into a rhythm of whisking, dredging, and frying until the battered cauliflower turns golden and crisp in the pan.
Next: Mason’s beloved ranch. I need to nail this, otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.
I finely chop the fresh dill, parsley, and chives before whisking them into tangy mayonnaise and creamy buttermilk. I dip the tip of my pinky into the mixture and taste it. Not to toot my own horn, but it tastes incredible.
By the time the food’s ready, the sun’s dipping low, casting an amber glow across the white walls. I drape a tablecloth over the dining table, tugging the corners until the creases smooth out beneath my palms.
I set the table with a pair of plates, wine glasses, silverware, and the lilac-scented candle I got from Derek for Christmas last year. I light the wick and watch the flame flicker.
A knock rattles the door, I rush to answer it, my fuzzy socks skating across the tile. I inhale a deep breath and open it.
Mason’s standing on the doorstep looking like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that hug his thick thighs and a green T-shirt that makes his hazel eyes pop.
“Hey, babyface,” he purrs, walking inside.
The door’s barely shut before he hooks a fist in my collar and pulls me into a kiss—hungry and messy, like we didn’t just see each other a few hours ago on his lunch break.
When he finally pulls back, his gaze sweeps over me, slow and heated. “You look good,” he murmurs.
I snort because I know he’s lying. My clothes are dusted with flour and buttermilk stains from cooking.
“Come on. Let’s eat,” I insist, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the dining room.
“Damn,” he whistles, eyeing the candlelight and neatly set table. Each plate is piled high with a tower of fried cauliflower wings, still hot from the stove, steam curling into the air. A small ramekin of homemade ranch sits beside them, flecked with green herbs.
