He rose and crossed the room. At the doorway, he glanced back. “Hungry?”
I wet my lips. “Yeah.”
“Let’s go to the kitchen.”
I followed him downstairs. He opened the fridge while I perched on a stool at the island. He studied the shelves for a long moment before pulling out potatoes, an onion, and eggs.
“Are you going to cook?”
“It’s faster than ordering takeout. Honestly, I figured Russell would’ve hired a cook by now.”
He grabbed a small knife and began peeling potatoes. My gaze snagged on his hands—steady, skilled—and my stomach flipped.
I cleared my throat, breaking whatever spell he always seemed to cast. “My mom used to cook before she got too sick. After that, we just got by until Sharon offered to handle meals. Dad hardly eats at home anyway.”
“I see.” He set the peeled potato aside and reached for another. “So, you clean the house too?”
“No. Berta comes three times a week. She’s on vacation now, but the rest of the house isn’t as messy as my room.”
He turned on the faucet with a huff. “Funny you think I’d care about the mess.”
He’d seen the blood on my clothes earlier and hadn’t said a word, which I was immensely grateful for. No wonder an untidy room didn’t faze him either.
“What about you?” I asked once Asher rinsed the potatoes and began dicing them with practiced ease. “When did you learn to cook? Didn’t you have a housekeeper or something?”
He set the knife aside and pulled a glass bowl from the cabinet. “We did in Madrid. I learned while living with my grandma in El Puerto.”
“El Puerto,” I echoed. “It’s in the south of Spain, right? I think your mom mentioned it once.” I remembered because I’d soaked up every detail Sharon ever shared about Asher and Spain.
A grin spread across his face as his dark eyes held mine. Heat flared in my cheeks.
“What?” I muttered.
“I still haven’t gotten used to this—how much you know about Spain. It’s rare. And you’re right. El Puerto de Santa María’s a small town on the Atlantic, near Cádiz and Jerez de la Frontera.”
“So, your grandma was born there?”
“Yeah.” He cracked an egg into the bowl, then a few more. “She met my grandpa when he came to Rota—the only American military base in Spain is there. After they married, they settled in El Puerto.”
“I guess that explains your last name. Williams isn’t exactly Spanish.”
Asher whisked the eggs. “Yeah. Neither’s my first name. My mother chose it.”
I almost told him I liked it, but stopped myself just in time. No way I wanted him thinking I was flirting.
“What about your name?” he asked, tipping the diced potatoes into a pan of sizzling oil. “Kaia isn’t common either.”
“I guess not. Mom told me she picked it as soon as she knew she was having a girl. It means pure.”
“I like it,” Asher said simply. “It suits you.”
The ease with which he complimented me left me feeling flustered, and a little important.
We fell into a comfortable silence. I let him focus on cooking while my stomach clenched with hunger. Twenty minutes later, he flipped his creation in the pan. Golden, thick—like a giant omelet.
“La tortilla,” he said, switching off the stove. “Want some salad?”
I shook my head. “La tortillais enough.”
