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“You’re right.” He nods, setting the long wooden spoon down smack dab on the counter. “I didn’t,” he admits as I reach past him, lift said spoon, and set it back down on a paper plate. “I made it in ten.”
My head snaps his way. “I’m sorry, what?”
He smirks and begins walking backward into the living room, so just as he wants me to, I follow.
“Okay, Gordon Ramsay.” I set our drinks on the tabletop, and we lower into the spots we’ve come accustomed to eating in the last couple Mondays. “Tell me how.”
“Sorry, can’t do that.” He shakes his head, no longer waiting for me to serve myself, but rather portions it out for me.
I reach out and scoot an extra piece of chicken onto my plate. “And why not?”
Noah’s eyes glide my way, and he smirks. “Only way to learn is to do it with me.”
“That sounds a lot like coercion.”
He lifts a dark brow. “Did it take coercion to get you here tonight?”
I stick my food-covered tongue out and Noah shakes his head and laughs.
After a few bites and tuning into the scene in Superbad where McLovin first gets his fake ID, I turn to Noah. “So, do I get to pick the menu?”
“Only if you take turns doing the cooking.”
“Yeah, sure, if you want a Top Ramen night with a side of Takis.”
“I happen to like ramen.”
“Big fat liar.”
“Nope.”
“How could a guy who can cook like this possibly like Top Ramen?”
“You ever dress up your noodles? Little lime, some Tapatio and cilantro?”
I gape at him, and he chuckles, adding, “How about with a boiled egg, soy sauce, and siracha?”
I blink dramatically, and he tosses his napkin at me.
“Okay, you win.” I accept defeat. “You’re on menu, but we need a noodle night in there somewhere. I want to learn all about this from poor to polished ramen stuff.”
Noah nods. “I want to teach you.”
“Good.” I jerk my chin, and he beams. “Let’s start Sunday?”
When he frowns, I quickly add, “Or, I mean, whenever you have time. You know, after the season maybe.”
Stop talking, Ari.
“I don’t want to wait until after the season, Juliet.” Noah tries to hide his amusement as he looks my way. “I can’t on Sundays, that’s all.”
Because you and the ballerina are both busy that day…
That thought has a frown threatening to creep over my face, but I manage to hold it in.
“How about we make these Mondays official and add Wednesdays?” he asks. “Those are the easiest for me, since I have morning practice, and my classes are done before lunch. What about you?”
“Yes.”
He looks to me and I shake my head, clamping my eyes closed a moment. “I mean, same.” No, wait. I twist toward him a bit. “No, not same. I don’t have practice, obviously, but yes, those days are good for me too.”
Noah drops his grin, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Thankfully, I manage not to ramble on the rest of the evening, and when Noah walks me home, the short trip is full of jokes and laughter.
The next morning, I wake the next morning to find a text of our ‘proposed’ menu. So to make it official, I add our plans to my calendar, and search for him on Venmo. He said he would hit the store, so I send him a small chunk of my monthly food budget.
Noah sent it right back.
It’s Wednesday, we’re about done with the first meal, so I sneak away to the bathroom, and stuff forty bucks into the front zipper of his backpack. I’m back in the kitchen before he has a moment to get suspicious.
Noah lifts the spoon to his mouth, where my attention is stuck as he blows on the hot mixture. Once satisfied it won’t burn my mouth, he brings the spoonful toward me. “Taste this.”
His eyes, they’re so unlike a shade of blue I’ve seen before. So mythical and bright, yet stormy, like what you’d expect the find on the god of the sea. A little lost and lonely maybe. A hint of wild. It’s intriguing, the color. Or maybe it’s the emotion I can read within them.
How can I read the emotion within them?
“Juliet?”
I blink, dropping my pinched gaze to the spoon.
“Sorry,” I mumble, closing my lips around it.
The savory glaze concocted of homemade chili with cranberry hits my tastebuds, the explosiveness of the flavors pulling a satisfactory moan from me.
“So good.” I leave the sauce to sit on my tongue a moment. “You know, if the whole going pro thing doesn’t work out for you, you could totally be a chef.”
I hadn’t realized I closed my eyes, and when I look to Noah, he tears his from my mouth.
He quickly turns to the sink, dropping the spoon inside. “You think it’s good like that or does it need more crushed red peppers?”
