I blink. “Right,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets. “So… uh… would you want to come over for dinner?”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the workbench. “Dinner, huh? Should I be worried?”
I flush. “Why would you be worried?”
“Because,” he says, smirking, “I don’t usually eat the smoke alarm’s special.”
I huff a laugh, swatting at him. “I will try. Maybe.”
He laughs quietly, that low sound that makes my chest flutter. “You cook?”
I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek. “No. I can barely make cereal without causing a minor emergency. But you can come anyway. Brave souls are rewarded, right?”
He tilts his head, amused. “Brave or foolish. Not sure which category I’m in yet.”
“I’m betting on brave,” I say quickly, because that’s what I want him to be. Brave. Patient. Not running away.
He smirks, eyes softening for the briefest second. “Alright then. Brave it is. I’ll be there.”
And just like that, my heart lurches again. I have no idea what I’m doing, no idea what I’m about to serve him, but somehow it feels like maybe—just maybe—I’m exactly where I need to be.
“Okay, then see you at seven,” I say, step out of the garage, and start walking back toward my place, but my chest is hammering, my mind racing faster than my legs can carry me.
Dinner.
DINNER.
What was I thinking? I can’t cook. Not even close. My idea of a “meal” is cereal and takeout, and now I’ve just… invited him over. For dinner.
I stop in the middle of our yards, gripping my sweatshirt like it’s a lifeline. I’ve never had a man over for dinner before. Not really. My old life? A cook—or more like Banks—would have handled all this for me if I had even tried. But no. Me. Alone. And now Ethan is coming.
I imagine him sitting there, calm and patient, waiting for something edible, and I feel my stomach drop. How do you make chicken? Or anything that won’t make him question all my life choices?
I pace again, kicking at a stray leaf. The idea is terrifying. My brain is a tornado, screaming: This is a trap. You are a disaster. You can’t even boil water without setting off smoke alarms.
And yet… part of me is grinning, ridiculous and terrified. Because somewhere under all the panic, I know he’ll still come. He’ll still walk through that door. And if he’s really the patient, steady man, I think he might be… maybe he’ll survive the culinary apocalypse I’m about to unleash.
But holy hell, I’m doomed.
Chapter 19
Lucky
Ispentthewholeday watching YouTube videos like some kind of suburban housewife in training.
“How to Make Dinner in Under an Hour,”
“5 Meals That Impress Without Failing,”
“Cooking for Dummies Who Can’t Boil Water.”
By the time Ethan shows up, I should be a Michelin-star goddess, right?
Wrong.
I stride into my kitchen, cardigan still over my shoulders like a domestic cape, and I’m immediately attacked by the fridge. Everything looks suspicious, fluorescent, and judgmental. I try to act confident. I mean, I know what I’m doing. I’ve watched literally twenty-seven videos.
I can do this.
