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I quickly dry my eyes on my sleeve as I follow the scent of sautéing garlic and onion to the kitchen and find Ethan chopping bell peppers at the center island. The scene is at once comforting and confounding. What is he doing home so early?
He smiles when he sees me, and my heart physically aches at the sight. Somehow, I’d managed to endure my entire adult life without his smile being the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I glimpsed when we bid each other goodnight. But as I look at him now, studying the slanted arch of his lips, the playful spark in his eyes, I don’t know how I survived so long without it.
“Whoa.” He regards my damp, bedraggled hair and the béarnaise sauce stain on my sweater. “What happened to you?”
“Cooking class casualty.” I slide past him and shove the raw salmon in the fridge. “I got an A for effort and an F for edible.”
“That’s probably because you had the wrong teacher. I’ll show you how to make a frittata that’ll knock your socks off.”
“Famous last words,” I tease, but he isn’t deterred.
“Before we get started, you need to change into proper cooking attire.” He gestures to his plaid pajama bottoms and snugStar TrekT-shirt.
I crack a smile. “Your chef’s whites look an awful lot like faded PJs.”
“I like to run a comfortable kitchen, but don’t let it fool you. The food is still five-star.”
“Even if your sous chef has zero culinary skills?”
“We’ll see about that.”
Something in his easy smile makes me consider his offer. Although I’ve already checked off the cooking class, and technically never have to step foot in a kitchen again, if I so choose, I find myself changing out of my damp clothes and into the same flannel pajamas from my first night in the city, the ones with cartoonish mugs of hot chocolate and winking marshmallows.
When I rejoin Ethan in the kitchen, Frankie Boy is crooning “Let Me Try Again,” as if he’s taken it upon himself to sing the soundtrack of my life. I stand beside Ethan at the large center island, and he hands me a brown speckled egg.
“We need six whole eggs.” He taps the side of a large ceramic mixing bowl.
“And by whole, you mean the egg whites, yolk, and the shell, right?”
“Although they’re a good source of calcium, try to limit the amount of shell.”
“I’ll do my best.” Not feeling optimistic, I whack the egg against the narrow rim, and the thick, translucent goo and plump yellow center plop into the bowl, along with a smattering of shell.Figures. With a sigh, I reach in and gingerly pluck them out, one sticky fragment at a time.
“Here. Let me show you a trick.” Ethan places another egg in my palm. This one is a pretty muted-green color. “Instead of using the rim, give it one solid tap on the counter.”
I shoot him a skeptical glance, but he nudges my arm. “Trust me.”
Bracing myself for a slimy mess, I do as he says, but nothing appears to happen. I cock my wrist, preparing to try again, but Ethan places his hand over mine. A quick, sharp current zips up my arm, and I almost drop the egg.
“Hang on a sec.” He turns my palm over, still cradling my hand in his. “See the tiny cracks?”
Sure enough, there’s a web of sinewy fissures I hadn’t noticed before. I nod mutely, too distracted by his touch to speak.
“Hold the egg over the bowl and gently press your thumbs on either side to break the membrane,” he instructs. “Then slowly pull apart.”
Although I hear every word he’s saying, my limbs no longer function, as if the electrical current fried my mainframe.
“Here. It’s not as tricky as it sounds.” He positions himself behind me, so close the heat from his body radiates between us. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to lean back against him and soak it in.
With his hands over mine, he guides me through the motions, and the egg glides into the bowl without a single speck of shell to be seen.
“See. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ethan steps away, and I immediately miss the warm, steady assurance of his presence.
He delegates the remainder of the eggs to me and starts chopping basil. The sweet, potent scent permeates the kitchen, and I suddenly realize I’m starving. When was the last time I ate? My thoughts drift from my own missed meals to why Ethan is here, fixing dinner when he should be out with Harper.
“I thought you were having dinner with Harper tonight,” I say casually, cracking the last egg into the bowl.
Ethan hands me a whisk. “That was her suggestion, but I prefer to meet in a coffee shop since it’s easier to set up my laptop.”
