“Oh, it definitely matters.” I’m grinning now, any pretense of professionalism completely abandoned. “Come on, Hollywood. What’s your favorite K-drama?”
He sighs, sets down the pen, and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re going to make fun of me.”
“Probably. But I’m going to find out eventually, so you might as well tell me now.”
“Fine.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something endearing about how genuinely embarrassed he looks. “It’s Legend of the Blue Sea. It’s about a mermaid who falls in love with a human. Happy now?”
I press my lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. I fail. The laugh bursts out of me, genuine and surprised and delighted.
“A mermaid.” I’m grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “You watch romances about mermaids.”
“It’s not just about the mermaid,” he protests, but he’s smiling too now, sheepish and self-aware. “There’s a dual storyline and reincarnation and a whole con artist plotline?—”
“But mostly it’s about a mermaid and human falling in love.”
“Mostly, yeah.” He picks up the pen again. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
“Oh, I’m definitely going to be thinking about this for a while.” I’m still grinning, filing this information away. “River Stone, tough guy who lives in a five-bedroom house all alone, watches romantic K-dramas about mermaids and cries over the food.”
He scoffs. “I don’t cry over the food.”
“But you cry over the romance?”
“I—that’s not—” He stops, shakes his head, and goes back to filling out the form, his cheeks turning pink again. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am.”
But there’s something about this moment that feels significant. River, who seems perfect and put-together and completely out of my league, watches romantic dramas and gets embarrassed about it. It makes him feel more real. More accessible, somehow.
River finishes the form and hands it back to me. I scan through his answers—he’s surprisingly detailed. Under “Foods you’ve always wanted to try,” he’s written “Anything from a Korean drama” and drawn a little smiley face next to it.
Despite myself, despite all my best intentions to keep this professional and distant, I smile.
“Okay.” I fold the paper and tuck it into my back pocket. “This is helpful. Now go. Do your editing thing. I’ll figure out dinner.”
“Yes, chef.” He gives me a little mock salute that should be dorky but somehow isn’t.
“Go.” I make a shooing motion. “I can’t concentrate with you hovering.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re standing here watching me read your food questionnaire. That’s the definition of hovering.”
He laughs but heads toward the hallway. “Call me when the food is ready?”
“That’s the plan.”
I wait until I hear the door to his editing room close before I pull out the form and read through his answers again. Korean cuisine. Beef or chicken for protein. Hates bell peppers butloves basically every other vegetable. Under comfort foods, he’s written a list of items a kid would love, like chicken nuggets and hot pockets. Then, after that, he’s written “Anything that reminds me of being a kid, before Kid Logic.”
There’s something sad about that answer that I don’t want to examine too closely. Is that why he wanted peanut butter and jelly yesterday? Did getting on a television show take something precious away from him?
I turn to the fridge and start pulling out ingredients. If River wants Korean food, I can do Korean food. Probably. I’ve never actually made Korean food before, but how hard can it be? I can find any recipe online.
That’s when I spot the jar of kimchi shoved toward the back of the fridge, behind the ridiculous collection of fancy cheeses. It’s unopened, probably from River’s panic grocery shopping expedition. Perfect.
I pull out my phone and search “easy kimchi recipes.” The first result is for kimchi fried rice, and the photos look good—the rice is slightly crispy, topped with a fried egg, and garnished with sesame seeds and green onions. It looks like it could be something from one of River’s Korean dramas.
I can do this.
