We reach the kitchen, and I thrust the paper at him before I can overthink it. “Here.”
River takes it, one eyebrow raising as he scans the page. “What’s this?”
“A form.” I cross my arms, going for confident but probably landing somewhere closer to defensive. “Since you wouldn’t tell me what you actually like to eat yesterday, I made an easy questionnaire. Fill it out so I can get a better idea of your foodpreferences. Unless you want peanut butter and jelly every night for the next month.”
His lips twitch. “The PB&J sushi was amazing.”
“It was a cop-out and you know it.” I lean against the counter. “I need real information if I’m going to practice actual cooking skills and not just get creative with children’s lunch foods.”
He’s reading through the questions now, and I can see the exact moment he realizes how thorough I was. His eyebrows climb higher.
“‘Client Preferences Form?’” he reads aloud. “‘Food allergies or restrictions? Preferred protein? Vegetables you hate? Comfort foods? Foods you’ve always wanted to try?’” He looks up at me. “This is very detailed.”
“That’s the point.”
“Did you make this last night?”
I shrug, trying to act casual even though I stayed up until 1 AM formatting this thing on Kiki’s computer and obsessing over whether I was being too controlling or not controlling enough. “It was no big deal.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s grinning now, full-on grinning in a way that makes him look even more annoyingly attractive. “This is very professional.”
“Well, you’re paying me thirty dollars an hour. Might as well take it seriously.”
“Fair point.” River opens one of the kitchen drawers—the one that’s apparently designated as the junk drawer based on the collection of pens, rubber bands, and random takeout menus I glimpse inside—and pulls out a pen. He leans against the counter and starts filling out the form.
I should probably go look through the fridge or start planning what to make. That would be the professional thing to do. Instead, I find myself drifting closer, curiosity winning over my attempt at maintaining boundaries.
River’s handwriting is neat, which surprises me for some reason. Most guys I know have chicken scratch handwriting. He writes “Korean” under favorite cuisine, and I can’t help myself.
“Korean?” The word comes out before I can stop it. “Really?”
He glances up at me, and I realize I’m basically reading over his shoulder like a nosy person. I should step back. I don’t.
“Yeah.” He says it like it’s obvious. “Korean food is so good.”
“I mean, sure, but better than Mexican? Better than Italian?” I lean against the counter beside him. “That’s a bold take, Hollywood.”
“Have you ever had really good Korean food?” he counters.
“Well,” I admit, thinking about it. “Not really.”
“You’ve never had bulgogi? Or bibimbap? Or tteokbokki?” He’s getting animated now, using his hands to emphasize his points. “The flavors are just—they’re complex. Sweet and spicy and tangy all at once. And all those little side dishes they bring out?—”
I’m staring at him. “How do you know so much about Korean food?”
His enthusiasm falters slightly, and pink creeps up his neck. “I, uh. I watch Korean dramas.”
“You what?”
“Korean dramas.” He says it quieter this time, focusing very intently on filling out the next question on the form. “They’re good.”
“You watch Korean dramas.” I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s hard. River Stone, former child actor, Hollywood pretty boy, watches Korean dramas. I’ve heard about them, but I haven’t ever watched one. Maybe they’re not as romantic and sappy as I’ve heard. “Like, multiple dramas? This is a regular thing?”
“Maybe.” He’s definitely blushing now, still not looking at me. “They’re well-written. The production value is really high.And yes, the food always looks amazing, which makes me want to try it.”
“What’s your favorite one?” I ask, because I genuinely want to know now. This is the most real River has been since I met him—flustered and embarrassed and human.
“It doesn’t matter.”
