“Aye.” He winces. “She bit down, heard the crunch, and just...paused.”
“That’s incredible.” I’m still laughing, picturing tiny, earnest Knox serving up crunchy eggs like it was fine dining. “Honestly, I respect the confidence.”
“What about you? Any tragic kitchen disasters I should know about?”
“Oh, mine aren’t in the kitchen,” I say, shaking my head. “I grew up with a mom who could turn basically anything into comfort food. It was like a love language for her. Homemade bread, soups that could fix just about anything, pies cooling on the windowsill. Safe to say I steered clear of competing with that.”
The words slip out easy enough, but there’s that familiar pinch that comes right after. The hollow ache that sneaks in when I’m not paying attention. Funny how grief works like that. It doesn’t always show up loud. Sometimes it’s just a little echo in the space where somebody used to be.
I can still picture her barefoot in the kitchen, flour smudged on her cheek, humming off-key to whatever tune was playing on the radio. Always humming. Always home.
God, I miss her.
I clear my throat, forcing a smile because that pang could swallow me whole if I let it. And tonight, with Knox standing there looking at me like I’m not half as complicated as I am, I don’t really want to drown in it.
“Anyway,” I add, shaking it off, “my most embarrassing story? It didn’t happen in the kitchen but in the driver’s seat.”
That gets his attention, and the irony isn’t lost on me. He leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed.
“I failed my driver’s test because I hit a cone. Like…obliterated it. Full speed. The instructor didn’t even yell. He just sighed as if he’d seen it a thousand times before.”
Knox laughs,reallylaughs, and it does ridiculous things to my heart. “Poor man. How many attempts did it take you to pass?”
“Three. The second time I almost ran a stop sign. The third time was the charm.”
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
I set my knife down carefully. “Is there something else I can do?”
“Sit. Relax. I’ll make us something to drink after I finish up.”
I slip onto one of the stools at the island, tucking my feet on the rung as I watch him move through his space with confidence.
If you would have told me three months ago I’d be in the Highlands at the beautiful home of a handsome man while he cooked me dinner, I would’ve laughed in your face. Hell, I certainly wouldn’t have believed you. I mean, James never even asked to help me when I attempted to cook. Never offered to wash the dishes. All those duties fell to me.
But now? Sitting here, watching Knox and listening to the sound of the rain tapping gently against the windows, it feels like a dream. I have absolutely no complaints.
He wipes his hands on a towel, his forest-green eyes locking onto mine. “All right. That’s going to need to cook on the stove for a bit. Ready for a drink?”
“I sure am. Are you playing the role of bartender now?”
“I wear many hats. I thought I’d make us some Scotch mists. Seems fitting, given the weather.”
He reaches for two highball glasses, filling them with ice before he starts pouring, explainingas he works. “Scotch, lemon juice, simple syrup, and soda water.” The ice clinks softly as he stirs each drink.
He slides one glass across the counter toward me. “Tell me what you think.”
I wrap my fingers around the cool glass, lifting it to my lips, the citrusy sweetness filling my senses before I take a sip. The smooth whisky rolls over my tongue, and I can’t tell if the warmth spreading through my body is from the alcohol or the heat in his gaze. I’m thinking it’s the latter.
“Well,” I say with a smirk. “I think bartender just became my favorite hat of yours.”
His gaze shifts from my lips to my eyes. “It’s good, aye?”
“Aye, it is.”
“Careful, lass. Keep complimenting me like that and I might start thinking you’re sweet on me.”
I laugh, taking another sip to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “Would that be so terrible?”
