Page 51 of Her Age Gap Match

“It’s a surprise,” she said, then shooed me out toward the living room. “Now go sit by the fire like you’re my husband or something. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

So I did.

Sat by the fire…watched her pick through the ingredients in the fridge, pull out pots and pans and seasoning.

Start to take off her clothes one piece at a time.

And I wondered how I ever got so damn lucky.

CHAPTER 15

Poppy

Johnny kept a good stock around the house: zucchini and carrots and bell pepper in the fridge, all the spices a girl could ask for, plenty of garlic. I’d already decided what I was going to make when I pulled out the frying pan, humming to myself under my breath.

Stir fry. Spicy stir fry with plenty of chili flakes.

It was comfort food, something my mom had made whenever it started to get cold outside. When she was a student at KU in the ‘80s, she’d done a semester abroad in Thailand and always claimed that was where she got the recipe. I think she was mostly full of it, but it was one of many fun stories.

So I toasted the garlic in butter, made sure Johnny had soy sauce, and got to work.

For his part, John did an excellent job sitting patiently…for maybe about ten minutes. He sipped his wine, bopped his knee up and down by the fireplace. Watched me like a hawk. I didn’t know if he was just annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to touch me, or if he was worried I would destroy his kitchen.

“I’m taking very good care of your cooking supplies,” I said. “I promise.”

“I’m sure you are,” he laughed. “Just…I don’t like not helping. Not that kind of husband, I guess.”

I snorted. “Fine,” I said. “You can help—but you have to do it shirtless.”

He didn't even hesitate.

Just set his wine down, reached back and pulled his shirt over his head in one motion, and dropped it on the chair.

I turned back to the stove before he could see my face.

"Okay," he said, coming into the kitchen. "What do you need?"

"Vegetables," I said, pointing at the cutting board. "Zucchini first, then the bell pepper. Matchsticks, not chunks."

He picked up the knife—my knife, technically his knife, the good one I'd already pulled from the block—and got to work without another word. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He had good knife skills, which I should have expected from a man who cooked the way he cooked, and he did exactly what I asked without editorializing about it.

“My mom is going to love you,” I said, still very intently not looking at him as I toasted the garlic.

He glanced at me. “Good to hear, given I’m probably about her age.”

I shook my head, laughing. “No, actually. I’m the youngest of three and my folks were older when they had us. They’re both mid-sixties now.”

“So I’m not ancient by comparison.”

“You’re really not,” I said. “Plus…my mom would never care about that anyway. She’s kind of chaotic. Probably would tell me you’re too hot to give up and move on.”

He snorted. “And your dad?”

“Complete opposite,” I said. “He’s a software developer. Very shy, has been bewildered by my mother for forty years and shows no sign of stopping.”

“Good models for a marriage.”

Johnny passed over the carrots. I dropped them into the pan and watched them sizzle.