Page 81 of All The Ways to Miss You

“Um, thanks?” I give her a confused look.

“That’s the fun news. Here’s the bad.” She lifts a pan, to which one of my plastic spatula has melted over the edge, merging the two items, making it a spatu-pan. Or would it be a pan-tula? Definitely pan-tula.

I scrunch my face. “First the bad cat dancing, and now this? Your perfect facade is disintegrating, Miss London.”

With the new spatula in hand, I walk over to inspect the damage. These things are designed not to melt, which makes me wonder how she managed it.

“I was trying to make you breakfast to pay you back for last night.” She casts me a guilty look.

“That explains my fire dreams.”

She shifts uncomfortably before glancing over her shoulder. When I follow her gaze, there’s a dish towel burned to a crisp, submerged in a sink of water. I laugh.

“Didn’t you hear the fire alarm or the fire department knock on the door?” she asks.

“Are you serious?” As I pick up the soaked dish towel to inspect it, I already know the answer is yes. I drop it back into the sink with a splash.

Worried, I spin, taking in the rest of the kitchen, searching for smoke or burn damage. When I find none, I release a relieved breath. I face Cait and grip her shoulders.

“Here’s my good news,” I say, and her expression brightens. “I believe we have our first official house rule. You’re not allowed to cook. Ever. If you burn down this building, Linden will kill me.”

She appears sheepish. “I think that’s a rule I can live with.”

Instead of releasing her, I give her a hug to let her know we’re cool. “But that’s not even the best part. Lucky for you, I know how to cook. So, sit down and allow me to school you.” I spin her and steer her toward a chair until she’s seated.

“How did you go from cocky and annoying to this?” She rolls her hand in the air as if searching for the correct words.

“I’m confident, not cocky. And the other adjectives you’re searching for are sweet and thoughtful, not annoying.” I remove an apron. Steph gifted it to me as a joke. I promised her I would never wear it, but when I tie it on, it makes Cait giggle, which was my intention. I’m always down for a little self-humiliation.

“When will you admit you like this handsome mug?” I gesture to myself, trying to appear macho in the apron printed with a naked male torso with perfectly etched abs. Maybe I’ll have them one day—for real. I strike a few bodybuilder poses.

“I deny everything.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair.

“Which means you do.” I point the spatula at her and watch her body language for the answer.

She shrugs, her expression noncommittal. “We’ll see how good your cooking is, then I’ll decide.” She leans forward, anchoring her elbows on the kitchen island.

With a self-assured grin, I select a frying pan from the cabinet and raise it in the air by the handle. Then I spin it in my palm, whirling it in several quick rotations. It flickers silver and black Teflon under the lights, making her hoot and clap.

What she’s about to learn is that in the kitchen, I’m a well-practiced circus clown, juggling bottles of milk and sticks of butter in a choreographed air dance of general awesomeness. I can’t tell if she’s impressed, but at least she’s watching me, and there’s nothing I like more than her full attention. Now I need to make it worth her while.

After my culinary acrobatics show is complete, I set a plate of apple-and-cinnamon pancakes before her. With a torch, I lean over to light the tall candle I’ve placed in the middle of the high stack. It’s not a birthday candle but a twelve-inch-high tapered candle I stole from a fake flower arrangement my mom brought over years ago to “brighten the living room.”

“Are you serious?” Cait asks.

In response, I sing “Happy Birthday.” When I’m done, she blows out the candle.

When her eyes turn all sparkly and damp, I can’t help but ask, “Did you make a wish?”

“I don’t need to. Everything I want is already on my vision board.” She’s confident she’ll acquire whatever she wishes. Another something I love about her.

She forks a piece of pancake, taking the first bite. Her shoulders ease lower at the taste before she continues speaking with a full mouth. “This might be my perfect birthday. I wish you ran too.”

Now I’m smug. I’ve been dying to drop this information on her. “I run a three-hour marathon. How about you?”

Her gaze brightens as a languid smile spreads across her face. She finishes chewing and says, “I guess you’ll have to find out. How about in eight weeks on the Lakefront? That’ll give us time to train.”

“Prepare to be whipped by me and my new spatula.”