“What, you think I can’t scrounge for food myself and make something infinitely more appealing thanthat?” I scoffed.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t like PB&J?”
“I’m allergic.”
“To peanuts?” His eyes widened.
“No. To culinary horror.”
He blinked—then burst out laughing. That warm, rich rumble filled the kitchen, bounced off the tile, and slid straight under my skin where it didn’t belong.
“Come on,” he said. “Just try a bite.”
He lifted the plate with a proud flourish, tilted it, and the sandwiches slid straight down the front of his shirt and jeans, leaving a trail of jelly before landing face-down on the floor. Grape goo oozed out like a crime scene reenactment.
His shoulders sagged. “No,” he whispered, mourning the sandwiches like fallen soldiers.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Your jelly is bleeding onto my tile.”
He crouched, sighed dramatically, and scooped the mess into the trash. “I’ll have to start over.”
“Absolutely not. Get out.” I pointed toward the door like I was banishing a demon.
“I should at least clean this up.” He grabbed a white towel from the freshly washed stack in my arms and dropped to his knees, scrubbing with the focus of a man trying desperately not to disappoint his mother.
Against my better judgment, I stared. He was ridiculous—hair messy, jelly smeared everywhere. And yet beneath the chaos was a man who kept trying, even when he had no idea what he was doing.
I saw that about him. Admired it, really.
Unfortunately, effort was not a love language I accepted from him. Not after the past. Not after Brad.
When he tossed my now-purple towel into the trash, I stomped my foot.
“Don’t touch another thing.”
“I just want to help.”
“Help me have a stroke?”
He flashed the cockiest grin I’d ever seen. “Admit it. You want to see what I come up with next.”
“I absolutely do not.” Oh, I absolutely did. If nothing else but to laugh hysterically at whatever he made. I set the towels down on the prep counter.
He opened the cooler and stood there, gaping inside, letting all the cold air escape—a pet-peeve of mine.
“There’s so much weird stuff in here I’ve never even heard of,” he observed.
“You already ruined eggs and murdered bread and jelly.” I nudged him out of the way with my hip, and shut the door. “Enough damage for one day. Get out of my kitchen.”
“But we should talk.”
“Not happening.”
“I think you’re forgetting one tiny detail.” He tapped his chest. “I own the place.”
“And if you ever want Quest to earn a Michelin star, you’ll never step foot in here again.”
“You’re serious.”
