“Because”—Dan turned to face me while holding a large onion—“you don’t know how to cook, and it’s faster if I just do it myself.” He shot me a smile and then, upon seeing my slightly crestfallen expression, added, “You keep me company while I’m cooking; that’s a big help.”
“That’s the thing you tell a five-year-old when you don’t wantto hurt their feelings by telling them the truth, which is that they would just get in the way.” I raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to contradict me.
“Well”—he examined a large red tomato—“your words, not mine.” He chuckled when I threw a napkin at him.
“Erica thinks that I should learn how to cook.”
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt to learn a little bit.” I lifted my tea to my lips again and tried to look innocent. “It might be fun with the right teacher…”
“I have a feeling I’m gonna regret this.” Dan let out an exaggerated sigh. “Come over here.” He used a large knife to beckon me over to the countertop. “I’m going to teach you how to chop vegetables.”
“Should my very first cooking lesson involve sharp knives?” I shot him a skeptical look.
“Good point.” He chuckled. I rolled my eyes at him. “But we’ll take it slow. I believe in you.”
He positioned my body in front of his, pressing his chest into my back as he wrapped my palm around the handle of the knife. My heart began to race and I took deep, calming breaths, inhaling his delicious scent—or maybe it was the scent of the spices laid out in the small glass jars on the counter.
“Now,” he whispered in my ear, “you want to keep a firm grip on the knife handle.” He demonstrated by squeezing his palm around my hand, tightening my hold on the knife. “Then you want to use your other hand as a guide.” He used his other hand to grip my wrist and wrap my palm around the tomato. “You want to curl your fingers when you hold the tomato, so you don’t slice the tips of your fingers off.”
“That would be bad,” I said with a shaky chuckle.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I think Dr. Westlake has had enough of sewing us together.”
“But,” I said, “it would be nice to see Frisbee again.” Dan chuckled, sending a wave of his warm breath across my neck, making me shiver and goose bumps erupt on my arms.
“Ready?” he asked when we regained our composure. I nodded. Dan applied the smallest amount of pressure on the skin of the tomato and the knife sliced through it like butter.
“Wow, that is really sharp.”
“Yeah, it makes cutting things easier.” I turned around to narrow my eyes at him and he shot me a small smirk.
“Are you teaching me or teasing me?” I laughed.
“Oh, I’m definitely doing both.” He winked before continuing to show me how to chop the tomato into evenly sized pieces before moving on to the mushrooms, the potatoes, and the green beans. I had to stop when we got to the onions because my eyes were burning.
Dan took over the heavy lifting of food preparation, while I watched in awe as he moved effortlessly around the kitchen while he talked. According to Dan, this was an easy curry recipe—though nothing about it struck me as easy—that his mother taught him to make when he first moved out.
“She was worried about me starving to death at university.” He shot me a grin before he scooped the chopped veggies into the pan.
“Where do you get all these spices?” I picked up the glass jars one by one and held them to my nose, savoring the smells. They all smelled a little bit like Dan, but not quite.
“Mum.” He chuckled again. “She sends me a package every few weeks. I’m still in danger of starving apparently.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
“Yeah,” he conceded with a boyish grin. “I know she’s not excited about my living in the States as long as I have, but she and Dad are at least supportive, even if they don’t understand.” He shrugged. “I think the care packages are her way of taking care of me, even if she’s thousands of miles away, you know?”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“Which is why I’ll never tell her that I could get most of the same spices from Amazon or grow them fresh in the greenhouse.”
“You’d better not.” I slapped him on the arm. “How often do you talk to your mom?”
“Well, if you don’t count the good-morning messages in the family WhatsApp groups—”
My eyebrows shot to the top of my forehead.
