Page 52 of Black and Brown

He cooks!

Grace went to the island dominating the center of the space, flung a dish towel over his shoulder, and began to plate their food like he was fucking Bobby Flay.

What the hell is happening right now?

It looked like his favorite, seafood pasta, and a colorful salad Grace was adding to two wooden bowls.

Mirage sat at one of the six stools on the other side of the island, his mouth beginning to water.

Is…is that…homemade dressing?

The realization that Grace, his rigid, complex partner, who he’d thought he knew inside and out, possessed such culinary skill left him speechless.

There was no way he could hide the surprise or newfound admiration.

Mirage shook his head in awe, and a hint of relief flashed across Grace’s eyes.

“How come you get this fancy-ass setup, and my kitchen looks like something you’d see in a college dorm room?” Mirage pointed at the sophisticated stove. “Look at that ventilation system and all those ovens.”

Grace didn’t look over his shoulder, continuing with his job.

“And is that a…what is that? A mini wine cellar.”

“Cooler,” Grace corrected in a dry tone.

“Fuck you. They gave me a microwave that sits on the counter, and my refrigerator will barely fit a bottle of wine.”

“If you want a better kitchen, Mirage, get yours remodeled.”

He hadn’t heard Grace speak this much at one time. Mirage didn’t want him to stop.

His rough voice had shifted from gritty to hot velvet—a romantic tenor of intimacy and passion Mirage wanted to wrap himself in.

He accepted the glass of wine Grace slid over to him and took a long sip.

“I guess this setup would be a waste in my condo since I don’t know how to use any of this stuff.”

Not wanting to seem completely inept, Mirage muttered, “I can cook a few things.”

“Mmmm,” Grace hummed, stimulating Mirage’s groin.

“Yeah, I can make um, meatloaf, Salisbury steak, and that, uh”—Mirage snapped his fingers—“oh yeah, beer-battered chicken. It comes out pretty good too.”

Grace stared at him with one brow raised.

“Yes, I’m being for real. I make the chicken potpie for lunch three to four times a week”—I bet all this food took him hours to cook—“and each meal only takes me about twenty minutes or less.”

Grace paused what he was doing, still not appearing convinced, so Mirage added, “It’s pretty tricky, too, because I have to remember to stir the side dishes midcook, or they’ll have those little chunks of ice in the middle.”

Mirage was being serious, but a bark of genuine laughter exploded from Grace’s mouth. Mirage had to grip the edge of the island to keep from falling off his stool.

The sound was alien and strange, and once Grace realized what he’d done, he snapped his mouth shut before a deep scowl marred his handsome face.

Mirage couldn’t move.

Grace’s hardcore exterior had shattered right before his eyes, revealing a glimpse of humanity still in his partner, buried beneath his steel armor.

“And here I was arrogantly thinking that nothing you did would catch me off guard again.” Mirage closed his eyes. “That’s how well I thought I knew you.”