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I scowled at him again.
“I need to use the oven,” I whined, extra sad about my fucking chickpeas now. But no way would I ask him to have whatever he was making. I was too stubborn for that.
He leaned against the counter to stare at me.“Youcan cook?” he asked with a knowing tone.
I, in fact, could not. I had a nice kitchen—my landlord had it upgraded before I’d moved in, as if he was doing me a favor. I’d oohed and ahhed over the stainless-steel appliances and stone countertops because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the truth was I could poach an egg and that was about it.
Domestic goddess I was not. And I didn’t need to be. Not when I had Nora Henderson, baker and chef extraordinaire, just down the road.
I ate at her place often and fended for myself where I could. America had a lot of options for a shitty cook like me to eat reasonably well. Though I did have bouts of guilt every now and again about the food I was consuming and whether it was contributing to the decline of my health or whatever.
Luckily those bouts were fleeting.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I can cook,” I told Kip.
“Babe, we’re gonna be livin’ together for the foreseeable future. Lying to me right now isn’t really gonna do much but embarrass yourself in the long term.”
I wanted to scream. Or punch him. Right in his smug face. “Fuck you,” I replied. “And don’t call me babe. We’re not a couple.”
“You might want to be a little more agreeable to the man who just made you mince and cheese pies,” he told me, bending down to retrieve a tray from the oven.
I blinked, realizing why the scent had smelled so good. Because it was familiar. It was the smell of pie warmers in dairies from my youth.
Except better. Way better.
Kip put the tray of pies on top of the oven, and I stared at them. The crusts were golden, and the pastry looked flaky. Cheese and mince bubbled over the side.
“Glad you married me now, aren’t you?” he asked cheekily.
“Don’t,” I snapped, holding my finger up to shush him. “Don’t you ruin it.”
The pies captivated me, both the look of them and the scent. My mouth literally watered.
I forced my gaze from the pies to Kip. “Is there some catch?” I demanded. “Are you going to make me get on my knees or something?”
Though I would never get on my knees for a man normally, I would for a freshly baked mince and cheese pie when I was hungover.
Kip tilted his head, grasping his chin in an exaggerated pondering gesture. “Hmmm,” he hummed, dragging the sound along.
“Fuck you, asshole,” I muttered. “I’ll go and buy myself something.” Though I sounded resolute, I didn’t actually move. My feet didn’t seem to want to work.
He chuckled as he regarded me. “As tempting as the idea of you on your knees is, I’m not going to make you do anything.”
I regarded him with skepticism. “You’re not going to make me do anything?” I parroted. “You just made mince and cheese pies from scratch out of the goodness of your heart?” Saying it out loud made it sound all the more ridiculous.
“Not exactly out of the goodness of my heart,” he said, reaching up into the cabinets for plates. “I’m hungry, too, and as soon as you talked about them, I was curious. I like making and eating new things.” He waggled his brows, and I groaned at his childish sense of humor.
“No strings,” he told me, placing a pie on the plate and holding it out to me. “Scout’s honor.”
Walking away probably would’ve been the best option.
But my feet carried me forward, and I grasped the plate from him.
“There’s a good girl,” he murmured.
I froze immediately. “No,” I snapped, pointing at him with the hand not clutching the plate. “I am not into praise kink,” I lied.
Kip held up his hands in surrender, and I turned to walk away.
