“Oh boy,” he mutters, already amused.
I roll my eyes.
I’ve been learning a lot from social media. I’ve favorited like a hundred cooking videos. One of them is bound to win eventually. I mean, they look so easy on the sixty-second clip. I get that the video is edited to make it look easy, but eventually, one of these recipes is going to stick, and then another. It’s like driving; I just have to keep trying until I get it.
“The creator said that this one is foolproof, as in anyone can do it.”
He laughs under his breath. “Famous last words.”
It’s a simple ham-and-cheese slider with a honey-mustard glaze. The lady in the video promised me that it was a piece of cake. I hope we don’t prove her a liar.
Miles and I fall into easy chatter about our days as we unpack groceries. It still amazes me how natural this feels—this relationship that’s barely begun but somehow carries thecomfort of being years in the making. We talk like an old married couple, finishing each other’s thoughts and filling every quiet moment without forcing a single word.
“Okay,” I say, pulling a pack of Hawaiian rolls toward me like I’m about to conduct a cooking show. “So first you slice the whole sheet in half. Tops and bottoms. Like a giant burger bun.”
Miles leans one hip against the counter, watching me with a grin that both encourages and teases. “Seems easy enough.”
“It better be,” I say, lifting my chin. “I watched the video about thirty times, and each time she said it was super easy.”
“It’s funny how a video repeats itself when you watch it over and over,” he deadpans.
I pull up the video again, turning my phone so he can see. “Just so we’re clear on the vision.”
We both watch the creator’s impossibly neat hands layer ham and cheese like a graceful culinary ballerina.
“All right.” Miles nods like he's taking mental notes. “Let’s be honest. We’re making glorified sandwiches. If we can’t do this, we need to throw in the towel,” he teases.
“Wow.” I turn to look at him. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m kidding. We can ruin as many meals as you want. There’s no timeline.” He bumps his shoulder gently against mine. “You’re adorable.”
I wave toward the pan. “You layer the ham and cheese on the bread. I’ll do the glaze.”
The glaze seems to come together easily. Butter melts in the saucepan, swirling with mustard, honey, and a mix of spices. It smells like heaven.
“This,” I announce confidently, whisking in quick, proud circles, “is foolproof. Literally impossible to mess up.”
Miles leans closer, sniffing appreciatively. “Smells delicious.”
“Right? I mean, how could this go wrong?”
“You did say that about the mac-and-cheese video,” he reminds me gently.
I narrow my eyes. “That was sabotage. An unrealistically edited video.”
He laughs, reaching over to rest his hand on the small of my back. “Well, this looks perfect.”
His palm lingers there—warm and gentle. My heart does an embarrassing little flip.
“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “Now we pour the glaze over the sliders, pop them in the oven, and boom—chef-level dinner.”
Miles moves the pan of ham-and-cheese sliders across the counter. “Glaze them up, my Kitchen Goddess.”
I snort. “Don’t tempt me with titles I’m not qualified for.”
He helps me layer everything perfectly, and together, we slide the tray into the oven.
When the oven door clicks shut, Miles steps in front of me, bracing one hand on either side of the counter, caging me in. His body radiates heat. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm, his eyes dancing like he already knows exactly what he’s about to do.
