She makes a face. “So, it’s work.”
“Just come inside.”
After finding her phone, she follows me into Fable. I check my watch. It’s nearly midnight. I’ve been at the restaurant this late plenty of times, but Poppy hasn’t. Between the empty bar, the tables and chairs pushed to the walls, and the bare lightbulbs—we’re looking for new fixtures—it looks less than half-finished. Lonely, somehow. The walls need paint. The floor needs new staining. I’d love to find a way to upgrade the seating, but we’re working on a budget of practically nothing.
Poppy perks up at the sight of our impromptu construction zone. “It’s going to be so good when it’s all put together.”
I lead the way into the kitchen, giving my head a slight shake. Leave it to her to imagine the beauty of this place. I’m starting to realize just how good she is at seeing the potential in things, same as how I can look at a collection of ingredients and imagine a meal.
Once inside, she clambers onto a prep table. I raise an eyebrow at the sight, but she just crosses one long leg over the other in defiance. She’s in dark jeans, intentionally ripped at the knees, and a crop top that shows off a tantalizing strip of stomach. She’s gotten tanner since she arrived. I could swear she has more freckles, too.
She watches intently as I tie an apron around my waist. “What are we making, Chef?”
I really should have thought about the implications before demanding that she call meChef. Even though she’s teasing—I can hear it in the lilt of her voice—a zing shoots down my spine.
I clear my throat. “Grilled cheese.”
“Just a measly grilled cheese?”
“Best grilled cheese you’ll ever eat.” I wash my hands. Gather the ingredients. Sourdough bread from a decent bakery nearby; I haven’t gotten around to experimenting with my own yet. Sharp cheddar cheese. Gruyère. Mayo, a sweet onion, balsamic vinegar. Butter and salt. A bag of potato chips. “We’re officially in midnight snack territory, Winfield. Cut the cheese into slices for me. Thin enough it’ll melt nice and easy.”
“I know you’re just trying to distract me,” she says.
I shrug. “Is it working?”
“Fine.” She hops off the table, twisting her hair into a bun. “Is this your recipe?”
“Yep.” I work on slicing the onion, nice and thin so it’ll caramelize properly. “Figured it can’t hurt to show you how to make some comfort food.”
“When did you first make it?”
“Culinary school. Not for class or anything—my roommate and I had a bit of a competition going.”
“A grilled cheese competition?”
“Keep in mind, we were both broke as hell.” She takes the knife I hand her. I watch as she starts to cut into the block of cheddar. Her form is better already; clearly, she absorbed some of the onion chopping lesson. “We’d work with these gourmet ingredients all day, then get back to our place with barely any money for groceries.”
“Who was your roommate?”
“Guy named Owen. Seriously incredible palate.” I set a pan on the stove, turning up the heat, and drop in a few tablespoons of butter. The onion goes in once that’s melted, along with salt. “We’d make a game of elevating, say, boxed mac and cheese. Instant ramen. Sandwiches. Whatever we could grab from the store on sale or take home from class.”
I can still picture the small apartment we shared, with its shitty radiator and the penny tile in the bathroom. When Owen was around, it was great, but if I found myself alone, I’d collapse on the couch, trying to convince myself that my homesickness was just loneliness. I can still feel the echo of it somewhere between my ribs.
I give the onions a gentle stir. “Anyway, I come home one day freezing my ass off. New York in February.”
“Objectively the worst month.” Poppy holds out a slice of cheddar for my inspection.
I nod at the sight of it. “Keep going. February—well, it’s beautiful here, actually. Some of the best weather of the year. But that day, I came home all pissed off, cold as hell,andit starts snowing the moment I take off my coat.”
As I talk, I slice the bread. Poppy moves to put the cheese on, but I shake my head. “Not yet. Give the onions a bit of time.”
“Let me guess, it was your turn to cook?”
“Naturally.” I snort at the memory. “I start tearing through the pantry, looking for something I can make into a meal, because there’s no way I’m going back out into the blizzard.”
“You’re from Florida,” she says, an impish note in her tone. “I don’t know if I can trust your judgment when it comes to winter weather.”
“Trust me. Owen came in half-frozen. We turned up the radiator so high, I thought it was possessed, with the noises it was making. But anyway, I finally rustle up some cheese, bread, and a lone onion. Potato chips; we always had those around.” I check on the onions again, nodding to myself at the look of them. They can’t be rushed, but they’ll be worth it. “Remember, this was a competition. Owen smoked me the last few times. So, I’m like fuck it, I’m going to make the best grilled cheese he’s ever had.”
