The kettle whistles, so I slosh hot water into the mugs while he eases the bread out of the tin.
As I reach for two plates from the cabinet he says, “Oh, we can’t eat it yet. It needs to cool. If I cut it now, it’ll fall apart.”
“Well, you are quite the banana bread tease.”
Good God, that sounded way more suggestive than I expected. My face burns like it must be raspberry red. I turn away, take my mug to the other side of the breakfast bar, and sit.
To avoid looking at him, I gaze along the spines of the cookbooks on the shelf by my head. I’m sure none of them contains banana bread. “Where did you find the recipe?”
He slides a spatula under the loaf with the care of an artist and delicately transfers it to a cooling rack without shedding a crumb. Then he looks at me over his shoulder, raises his eyebrows, and taps his head with the spatula.
“No way,” I say to him as if he’d told me he’s about to single-handedly clear the roads between here and Blythewell.
There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that man wastes brain space on a banana bread recipe. His head’s probably bursting at the seams with algorithms and blockchains. Whatever those things are.
“Believe what you like.” He turns to the sink and runs water into the tin. The plaid shirt fits snugly across his shoulders. As I scan down his back to his butt, he turns around.
I snap my eyes to my mug and jiggle the tea bag string. “I don’t think you’re any more likely to have memorized a banana bread recipe than I am to be able to reprogram your computer.”
“You might be a mighty fine computer scientist as far as I know. The difference is, I don’t judge by appearances.” He draws a halo over his head with a finger.
“Oh, bullshit. You totally had me down as a tree-hugging hippie who lives off-grid, crochets her own muesli, and never showers.”
He picks up his mug. “I didn’t detect the aroma of a non-showering hippie.” He glances at Elsa, who’s stretched out on the rug. “Just of damp dog.” He lifts one corner of his irritatingly perfect mouth as he walks around and sits on the stool next to me. “But you admit you’re judging me, though. Right?”
My heart picks up the pace. Possibly out of guilt. Possibly due to his proximity. “I am.” No point denying it. “I totally am. But I’m also totally sure I’m right.”
“And, pray tell, what do you see before you?” He quirks an eyebrow and makes a sweeping gesture from the top of his head to his feet.
I could tell him I see a vision of hotness, the sight of whose forearms, cheek dimple, and muscular butt makes me hungry for more than his baking.
“I see a guy whose life revolves around technology.” I point at his phone on the counter in front of me. “Who’s at such a loss without it that he turns to”—I jab my finger toward the banana bread—“baking. And who thinks he should be able to solve every problem by throwing a pile of cash at it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be sitting here if I could do that, would I?”
He pulls the tea bag out of his tea, squeezes it into his cup, and tosses it overhand in a perfect arc to the other side of the kitchen, where it lands with a damp thud in the sink.
There’s someone who knows how to own his space. I widen my eyes at him.
He smirks and shrugs. “I don’t like over-steeped tea.”
I shake my head. “It’s like I have an entirely different person in my house than the one from last night.”
“I was awake most of the night worrying about not being able to get to my aunt and uncle’s place, and not being able to talk to Elliot. But I came to the conclusion that you’re right. The reality is, I can’t do anything about it.” He blows out a sigh of surrender. “Plus, baking makes me feel better.”
He thinks I was right. Mr. Fancy Company Owner learned something from me. I straighten my back and sit a little taller.
“Well, then I guess I also see someone who’s willing to learn from his mistakes and admit when he’s wrong. Admirable qualities.” I swivel to face his ridiculously perfect profile. “Tell me, though. The banana bread recipe. Where did youreallyget it?”
His shoulders sink as he cups both hands around his mug and gazes into it. He’s silent for a moment, like he’s pondering whether to tell me something.
When he eventually speaks his voice is heavy. “Sometimes, there wasn’t much more than flour and old fruit in the house.”
I’m not sure if he’s joking. I pull up my legs and sit cross-legged on the stool. “Are you telling me you were poor too? As well as your cousins, I mean.”
He exhales and shakes his head. “My parents weren’t so much poor as irresponsible.”
I lean toward him. “You mean they frittered their money away?”
