“Grilled cheese is an underappreciated art form,” he says with complete seriousness. “White bread or sourdough?”
“Sourdough, obviously. I’m not a monster.”
“Butter or mayo on the outside?”
“Butter. Wait, people use mayo?”
Ew.
He nods gravely. “They do. It’s controversial.”
“That’s not controversial. It’s downright disgusting.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he says, bumping my hip gently with his. The casual contact sends a ripple of warmth through me that I try desperately to ignore.
“You know what else is disgusting on grilled cheese?”
“What’s that?” he questions.
“Mustard.”
He cringes and gives me a horrified look. “Mustard? On grilled cheese? Who does that?”
“My father, apparently,” I tell him. “My mom used to put mustard on my grilled cheese every time she made it, and I absolutely hated it every single time. I even asked her several times not to put mustard on mine. Like, it would’ve been less work for her, right?”
“Yeah. For sure.” He nods.
“Right! But she never listened. Always with the mustard.”
“Did you eat it?”
“Hell no! I usually hid it in my shirt and then went to my room and hid it under my dresser.”
Shepherd laughs, deep and throaty and the sound makes me smile. “No, you did not”
“Yes I most certainly did. To this day, I can’t stand mustard.”
“Under the dresser?” Shepherd looks appalled. “That’s disgusting.”
“Hey, desperate times.” I shrug. “I was seven. My problem-solving skills weren’t exactly refined.”
“Did they ever find your stash of moldy sandwiches?”
“Only when we moved. My mom thought we had mice.” I laugh at the memory. “I never confessed.”
Shepherd shakes his head, eyes crinkling with amusement as he drains the pasta. Steam billows up, momentarily obscuring his face. “You were a diabolical child.”
“I like to think of it as resourceful,” I correct him.
“I think this is all ready.” He gestures with a wooden spoon. “Will you grab those plates?”
I reach for the plates he’s pointing to, our domestic rhythm surprisingly natural. If someone would’ve told me when I first met Shepherd that he’s as impressive off the field as he is on, I would’ve never believed it. I find myself mesmerized by the confident way his hands move, chopping, stirring, plating with an effortless precision I never expected from someone who makes his living on a football field rather than in a kitchen.
“Not bad,” I say, taking a bite once we sit down.
“Not bad?” he repeats.
“Yeah. That’s high praise.”
