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Good enough.
As I move the eggs around like he is, it splatters and burns me again.
“Ouch! Goddammit,” I growl, stepping as far away from the stove as possible while still somehow reaching the pan. I keep listening to the video and try to do what he says, but honestly, this is a mini-disaster waiting to happen.
“Next, you’re going to carefully flip the omelet, and while sometimes it breaks, just roll with it and flatten it out,” the instructor continues.
“Yeah, easy for you to say…” I mutter, stepping closer and trying my best to flip the damn thing. It goes as expected—half flipped, half smooshed. I try to even it out so it’s level and the other side can cook.
While that happens, I add in the ham and cheese, then allow it to cook for a few more minutes.
Once it looks done, I grab a plate and try to slide it on there without dropping it.
“Well, that looks horrendous.” I set the pan to the side and stare at the saddest omelet I’ve ever seen. I add more ham pieces and cheese on top so he won’t notice how badly I botched it.
Grabbing the loaf of bread, I slip two pieces into the toaster. Once it’s ready, I slather on butter and set them next to the heaping mess on the plate.
Bruno comes charging in just as I place the dish on the table. Eli follows, and we lock eyes. The intensity behind them has my entire body burning with desire.
“Morning,” he greets, carrying a stack of wood in his arms. “Did you…cook?” He sniffs, then grins.
“Yes.” I quickly clear my dry throat. “Well, I tried.”
He blinks, then chuckles. “Smells good.”
“Hopefully, it’s edible. I wanted to make breakfast to repay you.”
Eli walks in farther and goes to the living room, then drops the wood by the fireplace. He pulls off his gloves and sets them on the island, noticing the huge mess I’ve made.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says softly. “But I’m starving, so I appreciate it.”
“It’s on the table,” I tell him. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure, I’d love some.”
He sits down and dives in, moaning as he chews. I make him a cup of black coffee, and when I bring it to him, half of the omelet is already gone.
“This is really good, Cami,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “You really made this?”
“I have the oil burns to prove it.” I chuckle. “Admittedly, I had to watch an instructional video. Don’t judge me.”
Eli licks his lips, holding back his laughter, but there’s amusement in his eyes. The whole thing is pretty hilarious. Poor rich girl who’s twenty-two can’t cook to save her life and has to research the simplest recipes. Regardless, I’m determined as hell to take advantage of this situation and learn some useful basic skills.
“No judging.” He holds up his fork, taking another large bite. “It’s delicious. In fact, now that I know you can cook, I’ll be expecting this every morning.”
My head falls back with laughter, but his encouragement warms my heart. It’s nice to hear that it wasn’t a complete epic fail.
“Baby steps,” I mock. “There are one-minute how-to-cook videos on TikTok, so I might be able to learn a second dish before this is all over.”
“I have a super easy one called toad in a hole. It’d be really hard to screw that up.”
I furrow my brows. “Toad in a hole? Where you fry the eggs in the middle of a piece of bread?”
He confirms with a nod.
“Then you mean egg in a basket.” I fold my arms, challenging his weird name. I’ve never made it, but our chef did when Ryan and I were kids.
He scrunches his nose and shakes his head. “Toad. In. A. Hole,” he emphasizes slowly. “Is the correct term. Fight me.” He smirks.
“That doesn’t even make sense. If you’re going with an animal, wouldn’t it be chick in a hole?”
He snickers, shrugging. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he asks once he realizes I don’t have a plate.
I cock my head, pursing my lips. “It was hard enough making one omelet. I’m not pressing my luck again.”
“Cami.”
“Stop, I’m fine. I wanted a smoothie anyway.” I slide the chair back and stand.
“Let me make you something as a thank you for breakfast,” he urges. “Please.”
“No way!” I scold, walking to the kitchen island to clean up. “I made you that as a thank you. You can’t thank me for thanking you.”
He squints, grabs his plate, then walks toward me. “Wait, what?”
I sigh. “You’ve cooked since we got here, so I wanted to repay you for that. You can’t in return thank me for it when I was already thanking you.”
“Says who?” he challenges, setting his empty dish in the sink.
“Me,” I remark. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll eat a big lunch.”
