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I stared at the industrial grade stovetop, wondering why anyone needed something so fancy in a vacation home. In fact, everything in this kitchen was a chef’s dream.
Shaking my head, I grabbed the pot and filled it with hot water, placing it on the stovetop I turned the knob and the blue flames sparked to life.
Trace came back a few minutes later and grabbed an apron, tying it around his body.
“Man Bib?” I read the slogan printed on the apron in red letters. “Really, Trace?” I arched a brow, trying not to snicker at the ridiculous piece of fabric.
“Yes, really. I thought I’d go for the less offensive one. There’s another one,” he pointed to the back of the pantry door where more aprons hung, “that says, ‘”It’s all fun and games until someone burns their wiener’…On second thought,” he removed the apron he’d put on, “that one is much more appropriate.”
Grinning, he grabbed the hotdogs, a plate and fork, and sauntered outside onto the deck.
The water started boiling and I dumped the macaroni noodles into it. I realized that I had a problem in the fact that I hadn’t asked Trace where bowls were.
I looked around at all the cabinets, knowing it would take a while to find them.
By the time I found a large enough bowl to stir the macaroni in, it was ready.
Luckily, in my search for a bowl I’d also found a strainer.
I drained the water and dumped the noodles in the bowl, adding butter, the powdered cheese, and a splash of milk. It took another minute, but I found a spoon to stir it with.
When it was ready, I carried the bowl outside, along with forks, and placed it on the table.
Trace was already taking the hotdogs off the grill. With a smile, he set them on the table and headed inside. He returned with two plates, hotdog buns, as well as ketchup and mustard.
The grill was part of an outdoor kitchen, complete with a refrigerator, which Trace grabbed two bottles of water from.
“Eat up,” he smirked, pulling out a chair to sit down.
“You don’t need to be so bossy,” I smiled, fixing my hotdog, and sliding the ketchup bottle over to him.
“Oh,” he eyed me, “I think you like it when I get bossy.”
“Puh-lease,” I rolled my eyes, scooping some macaroni onto my plate.
He propped his elbows on the table, raising a dark brow
as he watched me closely. “What?” I asked when he continued to stare. “Is there something on my face? My hair?” I looked down to see if I dropped something on myself, it really wouldn’t surprise me, but there was nothing there.
“No,” he murmured, “just looking at my wife.” A slow smile spread across his face and he repeated, “My wife. You have no idea how much I love the sound of that.”
“I hope you still like the sound of it ten years from now,” I laughed, spearing some macaroni. For some reason, I’d always hated eating it with a spoon.
“Ten. Twenty. Fifty years from now, it doesn’t matter,” he spread his arms wide. “I will always be happy to call you my wife.”
“Good.”
“Will you be happy to call me your husband that many years from now?”
“Do you even need to ask?” I raised a brow.
He chuckled, scratching his chin. “No, I guess not. How could you ever get sick of me? I’m the coolest person ever.”
By the time we finished eating and cleaned up, Trace had given me very detailed reasons why he was the ‘coolest person ever,’ some of which made me blush.
After everything was cleaned up, and darkness was beginning to fall, I found myself mesmerized by all the fireflies in the yard.
I had never seen so many at one time before and I watched in awe as their lights blinked on and off, illuminating the sky like little fireworks.
