He’s already opened the sliding door to the deck. I rush to the wall of windows and hoist them open. By the time I reach the last one, the alarm has shut off.
“Never a dull moment with you, huh, Briggs?”
“I wanted to make dinner. I misread the box. Or I got distracted? I don’t know.”
His cheeks flame red, but there’s no touch of a smile on his face to belie his embarrassment. His chest heaves, which is alarming, given the fitness level required to play professional hockey. I snatch the towel from his hands once I’m close enough. My hands don’t reach for him though. I don’t know if that’s what he needs.
I place the towel on the oven handle and flash him a teasing smile over my shoulder. “What was this supposed to be?”
“It was a bunch of different appetizers.” His chest is calming with each passing moment. “I didn’t know what you liked.”
“You broughtfrozenfood into Gemma Harris’s house?”
Matt and Gemma bought this house because of the kitchen. It has multiple ovens, some fancy-ass refrigerator that cost like $20K, and enough counter space for multiple cooks to work at the same time. She’d never make processed food, not when she could whip up a fancy schmancy meal in less than thirty minutes.
Zach smirks. “She’s not home.”
“We can do better than this.” My fingers run along the cool granite countertop, moving at the same slow pace as the smile stretching across my face. I am more fun when Zach Briggs is around. “And it’s on the list.”
Learn to cook a recipe with more than five ingredients.
Zach smiles again, and my chest seizes at the sight. It’s been about a week since he reentered my life, but I’m already used to having him around. He’ll leave behind a huge hole when he moves out.
At two months into the semester at UPC, I wouldn't expect to have great friends, especially not while living forty minutes from campus. I’m also carrying secrets that automatically put distance between me and anyone I meet. I’m not able to share large parts of myself. I can’t talk about gymnastics without disclosing my bipolar disorder. I can’t explain why I live with family rather than on campus without sharing it either. It’s the lens through which I experience the world.
I hope I’ll eventually grow comfortable enough to share this part of myself with someone. For now, I’ll hang around with this guy who doesn’t push me to answer questions about whatthe hell I’m doing here and why I’m hiding gymnastics from my family.
“You think we have the stuff to cook something?” Zach asks.
He opens the fridge, peering inside like it’s a zoo filled with exotic animals. He examines a shallot, holding it to the light, as if it’ll reveal a treasure, before setting it aside. I’m not a master chef like Gemma, but my mom and I cooked dinner together multiple times a week after my diagnosis.
I sidle next to him. “Oh, I guarantee it. Gemma’s fridge is always stocked.”
We spend the next few minutes sifting through recipes on my phone, cross-checking them with what's on hand. It takes some time, but we settle on chicken parm and collect the ingredients.
Zach stands beside me at the counter, ready to mirror my movements. All is going swimmingly until a slip of his hand nearly takes off his thumb. He drops the knife and retreats to the other side of the counter.
“Here—read me the next step.”
Zach resists taking the phone. “That’s okay. I can watch.”
I laugh. “Don’t think you’re getting a free pass. You need to learn to follow recipes to cook.”
“Unless I’m one of those savants who can cook based on feeling.”
Zach scrambles to a rotating spice rack with no less than fifty different herbs and spices. When I first moved in, I pulled a few from the rack out of curiosity but hadn’t heard of half of them. I still don’t know when the hell to use tarragon.
Zach’s rifling through the rack, no doubt looking for something he recognizes. He’s less familiar with spices than me and stops when he finds garlic, triumphantly tossing it in the air.
“I won’t know until I try,” he argues.
I snatch the garlic before it lands back in his hands and place it on the rack. “Zach, we need anedibledinner. We can experiment another day, all right? Just read the recipe.”
His body goes stock still as we face each other, even more tense than when I got on my knees for him in that locker room. And he wasnervousthen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask the question I always hate fielding, but I don’t like the idea that I’m the reason Zach is losing his carefree demeanor.
He leans on the counter, his hands gripping the edge, knuckles chalk-white. “I don’t want to mess up our dinner. You saw me with frozen food. Maybe you should tackle this without me.”
