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She followed his gaze to where a recently opened box of pots and pans had been shoved next to the fridge.
“Well, yeah … it’s been a little while since I’ve dabbled in the kitchen.”
More like a lifetime, he thought.
“Need help?” he asked as he accepted the glass of wine.
She brightened slightly. “You cook?”
“Not a bit. I’d have done the same thing as you when pounding the chicken, except I wouldn’t even have had foil on hand to improvise. But I do have this.” He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and wiggled it enticingly in front of her.
She rubbed at her nose and scowled. “What are we going to do with that, use it to cook the chicken?”
God help them, she actually sounded serious.
“Uh, no. But I can dial it. Maybe call … takeout?”
Julie’s eyebrows snapped into a scowl, and she chewed her bottom lip moodily. “I wanted to make you dinner.”
Yes, but why? It obviously wasn’t part of her usual dating routine. Probably another one of her carefully plotted ploys that he’d need to watch out for.
He smiled disarmingly. “Come on now, honey. Show Mitchell your collection of takeout menus.”
She hesitated for only about two seconds before scampering to a corner drawer and pulling out a rainbow stack of papers. Mitchell selected one that looked well used.
“Tasty Thai?”
Ten minutes later, their food was on the way and he was holding a garbage bag open as she scooped her disastrous cooking attempt into it. “What is this?” he asked, poking at a soggy log.
“Garlic bread,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I think I did it wrong.”
Her face was just inches from his, and he got a good look at her skin. He doubted she’d had a chance to apply a speck of makeup, but her skin looked smooth and golden.
California girl. Odd that the thought didn’t produce the same disdain it had before. His fingers tightened on the garbage bag so he wouldn’t reach out and stroke one silky cheek.
Not yet, Forbes. Instinct told him that touching Julie if she didn’t have her usual defenses in place would mean a lot of trouble for both of them.
By the time they got everything cleaned up and the stickers removed from her brand spanking new pans, the food had arrived. Mitchell ignored her insistence that they eat at her tiny kitchen table, and instead claimed a spot on the corner of her couch.
“This is a little better than my chicken,” she said, mouth full.
“So who taught you those killer cooking skills?” he asked. “Your mom?”
Julie’s face clouded over. “I wish. My parents died when I was eight.”
The pad thai turned to dust in Mitchell’s mouth. “God, Julie, I’m sorry. Both of them?”
She stared down at her noodles. “There was a car accident. They were on their way to my ballet recital. My sister was in the car too—”
Her voice broke off, and he started to reach toward her, but thought better of it. He barely knew her, after all.
“Everyo
ne told me they died instantly,” she said softly. “As though that somehow made it better to an eight-year-old. They were still gone.”
His heart twisted at the thought of a tiny, sparkling Julie in a tutu waiting for her parents to show up and watch her much-practiced dance. He saw a sheen of tears in her eyes that she was blinking rapidly to keep at bay. He wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry, but to her it probably wasn’t.
“It wasn’t so bad,” she said finally. “My aunt and uncle raised me like one of their own, and my cousins were practically like brothers.”
