I smile because I can’t help it. “Good, that means the chef used my notes.”
Oran stops eating for a moment to give me his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“It means that my wife is the most educated stalker on the island,” Jagger points out just as he gets his plate.
Oran grins and I roll my eyes. “What he means is I know it’s your favorite dish if it’s prepared a certain way.”
“And how do you know the way?” Oran grills me.
“Your mom taught me one summer when you were in college.”
Oran’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline but he looks impressed. He nods and continues eating. “I see what you mean, Jagger.”
I give him, then Jagger, a side-eye. “Yup. Prepping to be the wrong man’s wife.” He takes a bite of his food then points his fork at me. “What didmymom teach you?”
“First, you left that open for so many jokes. Second, your mom doesn’t cook. Third, do I not make your favorite meal often?”
“Sequential order sounds serious, Jagger,” Oran jokes.
“No need to get upset. It’s just an observation,” Jagger points out between bites.
“I’m not upset.” I’m really not upset but I still feel it needs an explanation. “Most of my ‘Oran Hale’ information gathering was done in my teens. Even with that, the lesson didn’t come from me going to his home and begging his mom to teach me all things Oran. It was a Founder’s event; something fell through with the caterer and Mrs. Hale was one of the few in attendance who actually cooks. I and a few other people volunteered to help. Lasagna was the best way to feed a lot of people with the ingredients she had. She told me she always kept them in stock in case her baby boy wanted his favorite meal. That’s how I know. I do not stalk. It did, however, help me decide that I wanted to do something in the event planning/hospitality arena.” I look at my husband. “And that prepared me for what, dear?”
Jagger simply winks at me and sips his drink. They both laugh when I flash them with dual middle fingers which sparkle since my nails are pretty. I don’t want lasagna. I want breakfast, so I pick up my plate and stand.
“Keep on and you and Oran will be on that date tonight.”
“Oran puts out,” Jagger volleys.
I roll my eyes and head towards the kitchen to make a request with the chef. I would pat my ass as an invitation for him to kiss it, but I’m hungry and don’t need to get him started.
Pepe, the chef, smiles at me once I enter the kitchen but his eyes fall to my full plate.
“No like?”
I wave him off. “It smells delicious,” I explain as I cover it with plastic wrap. I have no doubt Oran will find and demolish the rest. “But breakfast sounds amazing.”
His cheeks dimple when he grins. “Ah, si.” He passes me a pink pan dulce concha and I hum my satisfaction when I bite into it. “¿Chilaquiles?” I nod. “¿Verde con huevos?”
I nod again and damn near moan at the suggestion. I love Mexican breakfast dishes. Eating my snack. I watch my plate being prepared with the adoration that Harley Quinn had for her egg sandwich. He laughs when I rub my hands together once he slides his masterpiece in front of me.
My first bite is heaven and I’m halfway done when I hear footsteps behind me. It’s funny how you can spend enough time with people to recognize how they walk. Without turning, I already know Jagger isn’t the one behind me.
Turning, I find Oran standing a few feet behind me. With his almost never seen casual attire - a t-shirt and lounge pants - and his dark, product -free waves somewhat falling in his face, he almost looks innocent. Almost. His expression tells me my exit looked far more dramatic to him than I intended. I just wanted to catch the chef before he left.
“Thank you,” he says. His usual “Oraness” is dialed back to the softer side Ainslee sees.
“For what?”
He offers me a soft smile. “For making sure my favorite meal was prepared this week…”
I shrug it off. It’s not supposed to be a big deal so I explain that. “No problem. I did it for everyone. That’s why there are so many Oreos around in case y'all stress out Ainslee.”
Oran smiles at my joke but his expression is the same. “Mainly for the memory of my mother. I love hearing how she was great to everyone. She was my best friend. I miss her so much sometimes.”
I remain quiet because I know Oran doesn’t talk about his mother often. He looks down at the counter to regain control over his emotions and taps his knuckles on the surface. I’m surprised when his arms wrap around me in a hug.
Dropping my head on his chest, I listen to his heartbeat calm and steady as he shows me his gratitude. Dare I say Oran Hale and I are becoming friends?
