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When I turn around, London is rubbing the back of her neck with one hand, the fingers of her other hand brushing over her lips, her brow pulled into a furrow.
“Sorry about the casualty.”
She blinks a couple of times. “Oh, it’s fine. It was the last one and there are plenty. Let me plate them.” She moves across the kitchen, fingers still on the back of her neck. She opens the wall oven and uses a potholder to remove the glass baking dish.
I managed to make it through last night without crossing the line, and of course I go and fuck it up this morning. I want to address it, but for once, I don’t know what to say. And with the way she’s going about plating the crêpes as if nothing happened, I can almost convince myself that I only thought about kissing her neck instead of following through on it.
Once the crêpes are plated, we take a seat at the kitchen table that’s rarely ever used and dig in. I groan on the first bite, the delicate crêpe and the delicious sweet tart of the orange filling hitting my tongue. “This is incredible. Next time you’ll need to teach me how to make these.”
She pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. Her expression reflects mild shock, but she quickly recovers. “I’d be happy to. Harley is the one who taught me how to make them. She’s the cook of the family. She used to bake with our mother all the time as a child, mostly so she could lick the beaters when she made icing, I think, but she’s amazing in the kitchen.”
“Based on this, you’re not too shabby yourself.”
“I have a few choice things that I’ve mastered, but Harley can pull anything out of the fridge and turn it into something delicious.”
“That must be handy, although I’m guessing you all don’t have a lot of time to cook with your hectic schedule,” I observe.
“Sundays through Wednesdays aren’t quite as busy as the weekends, so she usually has time to put together a few decent meals, and of course, I help when I’m useful. I imagine you must not have a lot of time to make use of this kitchen.” London motions to the space with her fork before stabbing another piece of crêpe.
“Not really. And cooking for one isn’t particularly exciting. I often have dinner meetings, and on the rare occasions that I’m home before eight, I have someone who prepares meals for me.”
London tips her head to the side. “Having food waiting for me when I walk through the door sounds amazing, but I imagine the novelty wears off pretty quickly.”
I smile at her astuteness. “Mmm, that it does. Gourmet meals are wonderful, but they’re a lot nicer when there’s someone to share them with. And you may be surprised to hear that I enjoy cooking, but only when I’m not eating alone, which is rare.”
“A bachelor who can cook seems a bit like a mythical creature,” she says with a mirthful smile.
I laugh. “That’s a terrible stereotype.”
“You’re right, it is.” She props her fist on her chin. “What was the first thing you learned to cook, and how old were you?”
“Toast with butter, and I was four, but I don’t think that really counts. When I was six, I learned how to make pancakes. Not from scratch, but from a box where all you had to do was add water.”
“Six?” Her eyes flare. “That’s so young.”
“I had supervision. My parents were both in treatment at the time, and I’d been living on peanut butter sandwiches. Trent’s mom came over and realized how dire the food situation had gotten. Neither of my parents had an appetite, and I was limited to what I knew how to make, apart from heating up frozen meals in the microwave. So she would come over every couple of days and teach me how to make something new. We started with easy things, like pancakes from a mix or things that didn’t involve a lot of steps.”
London reaches out and her warm palm settles on my forearm. “That must have been so hard for you.”
“I didn’t really know any different. I’d grown up with sick parents and needed to learn how to fend for myself. Of course, Trent’s family was always there. And I had other people who would trade off and help, but they couldn’t be there all the time, and I learned how to manage. By the time I was in high school, I could make a three-course meal without overcooking anything.”
“I’m sure the girls must have loved that,” she teases.
“I didn’t date much back then, or ever really. My focus was on my family. Most teenagers aren’t equipped to deal with that level of trauma, and I didn’t want to pull someone else into my upheaval.”
