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While I did that, Logan opened a package of Ritz crackers, crumbled them with his bare hands, and dumped them onto a metal baking sheet. He stuck that in the oven and turned the broiler on.
Oh no, I thought.He’s mashing a bunch of random ingredients he has on hand, like a chef version of MacGuyver.I shuddered to think of what the result would taste like.
Next, he covered each chicken breast in plastic wrap and pounded the chicken with a steel meat tenderizer until each breast was as flat as a pancake. His shirt fit him snugly, allowing me to admire the corded muscle in his arms while he hammered the chicken on the counter.
“How’s the sauce?” he asked.
“Um. I think it’s ready.”
He took out a spoon and tasted the sauce. “Almost perfect. A little more garlic powder. Don’t be shy.”
“Yes, chef,” I replied with a grin.
When the sauce was done, Logan removed the plastic wrap from one of the chicken breasts and said, “Ham. Two slices.”
I handed him two slices of ham, which he carefully placed onto the flat chicken.
“Cheese.”
I gave him two slices of Swiss, which he layered on top of the ham. Then he gripped the chicken and rolled it into a spiral. His fingers dug into the meat as he ensured it was rolled as tightly as possible.
“Take the breadcrumbs out of the oven,” he said over his shoulder. “Oven mitts are in that drawer.”
“You mean Ritz cracker crumbs?” I teased.
“Same thing.”
The crackers, which were pale yellow before, were now golden brown. Their delicious fragrance filled the kitchen.
Then Logan dipped the chicken spiral in the sauce until it was totally coated, then rolled it in the toasted breadcrumbs. “The trick is to toast the breadcrumbs first. Gives it a better crunch.” Finally, he skewered the breast roll with two toothpicks and placed it on a second baking sheet.
“Now you try,” he said.
“Me?”
“It’s simple,” he said. “I did all the hard work for you.”
He stood very close to me while I took the next flattened chicken breast and copied his movements. “Good. Space it evenly,” he said. “Roll it tighter. Dig your fingers in. You don’t want any air in there or it won’t cook as evenly.”
His physical presence, deep voice, and soft breath on my skin excited me, but I tried to focus on the task at hand. When I was done, I had a prepared chicken breast that almost looked as good as Logan’s.
Together, we completed the remaining breasts until all seven were held together with toothpicks and waiting on the baking sheet.
“Is this some secret recipe?” I asked.
Logan shook his head. “Chicken Cordon Bleu.”
“Oh! That’s what this is? I’ve never had it.”
Logan put the baking sheet in the oven, then went to the sink to wash his hands. “Growing up, my sister and I didn’t have a lot of books. There was one we read over and over, because it was the only book with pictures. It was about a boy who went to France to learn how to cook. The first thing he made was Chicken Cordon Bleu. Cordon Bleu meansblue ribbonin French.”
“Blue ribbon, as in first place?”
Logan nodded. “The recipe won an award at a cooking contest a long fucking time ago. Anyways, we must have read that book a thousand times. Ten thousand times. Chicken Cordon Bleu became like a mystical dish to us. Something magical, like unicorns or dragons. As soon as I got older, I learned how to make it. Whenever I’m hungry, it’s my go-to meal.”
The stairs creaked loudly as Braden came down and joined us in the kitchen. “Whatever you’re making smells good.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Logan grumbled.
