“I can be.” He tilts his head at me and smirks. “But I also like good wine.”
He hands me a glass and I give it a little swirl, watching the tannins slowly drag down the sides.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, leaning up against the counter. I like watching him move around the kitchen. It’s comfortable, confident—it feels like a different kind of intimacy.
“Nope,” he says, opening the oven door to check something. The scent that pours out just smells like home. “Just relax. Drink your wine. Let me take care of you.”
Take care of me? God, I don’t even know the last time someone took care of me, or went out of their way to do anything for me. No one’s ever cooked for me before. I’ve never been able to justbesomewhere without expectation of reciprocation.
So, for once, I sit and let someone take care of me. I watch as he moves around the kitchen, doing multiple things at once but never seeming flustered. It’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like this isn't a performance, just instinct. It’s unfair how sexy he is right now, in track pants, cooking a full English Christmas dinner, forearms flexing as he moves between basting the turkey and stirring something on the stove.
“You make this look so easy,” I say after watching him maneuver around the kitchen.
“What?”
“This,” I say, gesturing toward the stove. “How many dishes are you making at once? Gravy from scratch. Yorkshire puddings. It’s nuts.”
He shrugs. “It’s not that hard.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oliver…”
“Okay, it’s a little hard,” he concedes, flashing me a full smile. “Especially the Yorkshire puddings. They’re temperamental little buggers.”
“You’re kind of a show-off,” I murmur.
He winks, pulling a dish out of the oven. “Only for you.”
When he starts placing the dishes on the table, I’m salivating and practically full just from the smell alone. It looks like every feast I ever saw in the Great Hall of anyHarry Pottermovie. A perfect, golden roast turkey in the middle, surrounded by stuffing, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, honey-glazed carrots, and homemade gravy in a real gravy boat. A gravy boat, for fuck’s sake.
I blink, stunned. “Oliver, this looks like a postcard.”
He smiles at me, but seems nervous. “Yeah?”
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I say, genuinely floored. “Like… you cooked this. You. From scratch. If I didn’t watch you do it, I’d think you ordered this.”
“Mum taught me everything.” He shrugs, but I can tell he’s proud. “Taste it first though. Maybe it onlylooksgood.”
“I swear, if it tastes even half as good as it smells—”
“Then I win Christmas?”
“Then you destroy Christmas, Oliver.”
He laughs as he pours more wine into both our glasses and sits down across from me. I get both the turkey and the stuffing on my fork and shove it into my mouth.
“Oh my god,” I say, hand over my mouth. “Oliver… I’m sorry.”
“Bad?”
“No.”I shake my head. “You’re a better cook than your mother.”
His eyes go wide as he grins. “I’m texting her that.”
“I’m serious. It’s incredible,” I say, taking another bite of turkey.
“Bloody lush, innit?” he says, raising his glass to me with a cheeky grin.
We dive into the meal, and each dish is somehow better than the last. We’re laughing, drinking, and stealing bites from each other’s plates like this is our fiftieth Christmas.
