I’ve also felt that way about pastries.
“Eventually, she started testing out new recipes from around the world. Every week there was something different, and I got to taste it all while I sat there doing homework. One week she’d make churros, the next week, baklava. She even tried mooncakes, although we both agreed that one wasn’t a favorite.” He smiles as he talks, and I find myself mirroring him. “Obviously, after that, baking became a passion. I got a part-time job there in my final year of high school, and then the following year I was off to pastry school in Italy.”
“So, how did cooking come into the mix?” I smirk at my baking pun, and he side-eyes me before humming thoughtfully.
“I fell in love with cooking in Italy,” he explains. “After I graduated from pastry school, I’d spend my mornings working in a bakery, then head to a restaurant down the street to workthe lunch service. I learned a lot from that job. After a few years, I saw a posting for a chef position on the Gemstone—it asked for someone versatile, who could jump in on the line or pick up slack when the pastry chefs needed help. I was hired, and eventually, I was offered the executive chef position when my old boss left.”
“And the rest is history?” I offer, and he chuckles.
“Exactly.” His eyes light up, and I can feel my cheeks starting to heat.
“Okay, my turn,” he says with a sly smile. I smirk at him in challenge.
“Alright, what’s your question?”
“Hmm…” He’s quiet for a moment as he moves the cast-iron pan with the steaks off the stovetop and into the oven, then pulls a new frying pan out from one of the shelves and sets it on the hot stove. “Favorite movie?”
“Oh, easy,” I mumble, my mouth half-full of corn bread. “The Mummy.Yours?”
“Dune. The old one. OrRatatouille.It’s a tie.” His expression is completely serious—no hint of humor. But then he shoots me a wink, and the corner of my mouth quirks up.
“I like the genre diversity.”
“Thank you. Okay, let’s try something deeper…”
“Wait, that wasn’t a deep question? I mean, you didn’t even ask mewhymy favorite movie isThe Mummy.”
“Is it…Brendan Fraser?”
My hand flies to my chest, and my jaw drops in mock offense.
“I am not even going to dignify that ridiculous question with a response,” I reply primly. Nolan shoots me a sardonic look as he dumps a bowl of sliced mushrooms into the frying pan. I concede his point fairly easily, if only to get him to stop looking at me so intently. “Alright,fine, it’s Brendan Fraser. But to be fair, I’m pretty sureGeorge of the Junglewas my sexual awakening…”
“I don’t think that’s a very unique experience for a millennial woman,” Nolan deadpans.
I scoff at him and wrinkle my nose. “Rude.” He chuckles.
“It’s your question again,” I say, trying to anticipate what he might ask next. I’m enjoying getting to know him in such an easy way. When you talk over dinner, the conversation can seem forced, but with Nolan’s hands occupied, I don’t have to worry about where to look or what to do with my body. I’m not obsessing over what my face is doing.
I’m relaxed, for once.
“Tell me about your family.”
And then my smile falters. I exhale sharply as my body tenses up completely. Nolan must have felt the air get completely sucked out of the room, because he turns slightly and catches my expression.
“Unless you don’t want to, it’s totally fine?—”
“No, it’s okay,” I cut him off, blowing out another shaky breath. Nolan had been so effortlessly open with me about his mom and her cancer, and I don’t want him to feel that I’m not willing to share that part of me as well. “I just wasn’t prepared for that question. It’s…complicated.”
What a stupid word.
I say that it’s complicated because I don’t want to be rude; because I figure most people will accept that response point-blank and stop asking questions. Although, I’m starting to get the niggling feeling that my use of the word “complicated” is not because it hurts to talk about, but perhaps because of something deeper.
“You don’t have to talk about it if it’s going to be difficult,” he offers, giving me a look that doesn’t feel like pity or sadness. His eyes are just…kind. Compassionate.
“I should, though,” I say, taking a steadying breath. Nolan is quiet as he adds the asparagus to the pan. I can’t be certain, but it feels like he’s giving me the space I need to collect mythoughts, and I’m grateful. “Well, my mom died when I was eleven. Breast cancer.”
He pauses at that and stiffens. I think maybe he’s going to say something, but instead he lowers the heat under the pan, sets down the tongs he’s using, and steps away from the stove. Then, he leans back against the island and folds his arms over his chest.
