His large hands cupped my head as he tipped my face back. Smiled into my eyes. “I will cook for you.”
“What?” I blurted as he released me.
“I will cook. Breakfast.” He maneuvered around me to open my fridge. “You don’t have food.”
I couldn’t afford to buy a bunch of groceries. Which is why I always ate the family meal. “There’s leftover Chinese.” I spied a carton, lurking on a shelf. “And eggs.”
“Eggs will work.” He took them out. Taking charge, the way he did at the restaurant.
I folded my arms, watching as he cracked the eggs into a bowl. All the eggs, enough to feed us both.
“What are you making? An omelet?” The standard test for every beginning cook.
He shook his head, reaching for a pan, already at home in my kitchen. “You have no cheese. No herbs.”
“I think there’s a jar of parsley flakes around somewhere,” I said.
He shot me an appalled look before he realized I was joking. “Funny girl.”
I grinned. He moved with such deliberation, in full possession of himself, in command of his surroundings. I snuck a glance at his big hands, his calm face as he whipped the eggs to a creamy yellow froth. He swirled a knob of butter in the pan, calling attention to his thick wrists, the play of muscle under his pushed-up sleeves. He scrambled eggs like he was plating an entrée for dinner service, like he made love, with intense focus and attention to detail. Very hot.
Too bad I couldn’t record him. A video tutorial of Chef Eric Bhaer demonstrating scrambled eggs would get a ton of hits. #sexycookingman
I pushed away from the counter. “I’ll make toast.”
He nodded absently, adjusting the heat of my crappy electric burner.“Bitte.”
It was like in the restaurant, me working around him, playing prep cook. Only... different. I nudged him with my hip to get to the toaster. He patted my bottom, shifting out of my way. I was embarrassed by how much I liked it, that light, affectionate slap.
“No snotty comments about the bread?” I asked.
Eric’s lips quirked. “When Alec was five, he wanted peanut butter and jelly on plain white bread every damn day for lunch. With the crusts cut off. You cannot scare me with your bread.”
Aw. “That’s adorable.” I was pretty sure my father couldn’t name any of my favorite childhood foods. “You packed your son’s lunch?”
“Certainly not,” Eric said, squashing that little fantasy. “He was five. Old enough to pack his own lunch.”
I cocked my head. “But you trimmed the crusts.”
“No.”
“No?”
He expelled his breath. “I bought cookie cutters,” he admitted. “So he could do it himself. Stegosaurus, brontosaurus... He liked dinosaurs.”
A piece of my heart melted. Having seen how he dealt with the misfits in his kitchen—his tolerance and support for his makeshift family—it was easy to imagine him teaching a curly-haired five-year-old to cut sandwiches into dinosaur shapes.
“You must miss them,” I said. “Your sons.”
“Yes.” One word.
“Do they ever visit?” I said.
“Not often. It is difficult to find time.”
“Right.” I knew what it was like to have a father whose work took precedence over everything else.
“You must live to cook,”Eric had said.
