Every surface was spotless, ingredients were organized with military precision, and there were at least three different timers going. “This looks like the kind of operation that requires a flowchart.”
“I may have gotten slightly carried away.”
I moved closer, taking in the incredible smells and the obvious care that had gone into every detail. “What are we having?”
“Apricot-glazed pork tenderloin with Brussels sprouts and . . . oh God, I forgot about the potatoes.” He spun toward another pot, his movements graceful despite his obvious nerves.
“Theo, this smells . . .incredible. Like, restaurant-quality incredible.”
“It’s just dinner,” he said, stirring what looked like perfectly prepared roasted potatoes with herbs.
“This is not ‘just dinner.’ This is . . .” I paused, trying to find the right words. “This is the kind of meal that makes people fall in love.”
He went very still, the wooden spoon frozen halfway to his mouth where he’d been about to taste the potatoes. The only sounds in the kitchen came from sizzling oil and a bubbling pot.
Theo didn’t turn to face me. He didn’t look back. He just stood there, frozen in time.
“I mean,” I said quickly, “not that I’m saying . . . I just meant that it smells amazing. And looks amazing. And I’m sure it tastes amazing.”
“Right,” he said quietly. “Of course. Thanks.”
Something had shifted in the air between us, something warm and electric that made my chest tighten with possibility.
“Can I help with anything?” I asked.
“No, it’s all under control. Just . . . make yourself comfortable. There’s wine glasses in the cabinet above the sink.”
I found the glasses and opened the bottle I’d brought, pouring two generous servings while Theo continued his choreographed dance around the kitchen. Watching him work was mesmerizing—every movement purposeful, timing perfect. It was like what I imagined a German engineer might look like as he built his beloved BMW.
It wasn’t just cooking; it was artistry.
“Here,” I said, offering him a glass.
He accepted it gratefully, taking a sip that turned into a gulp. It seemed to calm him, if only slightly.
“To incredible chefs,” I said, raising my glass.
“To patient dinner guests,” he replied, clinking his glass against mine.
We stood there for a moment, drinking wine and looking at each other in his beautiful, chaotic kitchen, and I felt that familiar flutter of anticipation in my chest. Shit, it wasn’t a flutter; it was a stampede of wild hippos—and not the happy kind in the game—riled up, horny, ready-for-action hippos whose dongs dragged on the ground as they charged toward me.
Jesus, what was wrong with me?
Theo watched, his lip quirked, as I shook that image out of my head—literally—right there in front of him.
Tonight was going to be perfect.
Even if neither of us had any idea what we were doing.
Chapter 27
Theo
The meal was, if I did say so myself, absolutely perfect. The pork was tender and juicy, the apricot glaze had caramelized to exactly the right consistency, and the Brussels sprouts had that perfect balance of crispy edges and tender centers I’d been trying to achieve for years.
But what made my chest swell with something deeper than pride was watching Jeremiah’s face as he ate: the way his eyes closed with that first bite of pork, the soft sound of appreciation he made when he tried the Brussels sprouts, the way he kept going back for more even after he’d clearly had enough.
He wasn’t just being polite; he was genuinely enjoying every bite, savoring flavors I’d spent hours perfecting.
