“Starved,” Jake murmurs, as he comes up behind me to kiss my neck. “So, what are you making us, Madame Chef? Scones? Brioche? A casual breakfast croquembouche?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m afraid it’s just good, old-fashioned blueberry pancakes this morning,” I reply. “Also known as The First Dish I Ever Mastered.”
“Really?” Jake slides into a barstool across from me, taking an apple from the fruit basket and passing it from one hand to the other. “Family recipe?”
“Hardly. My parents were lawyers, and I’m pretty sure neither ever cooked a meal in their lives.”
“So, how’d you get into cooking?” Jake takes a large bite of the apple as he leans back to study me contemplatively.
“Well, this recipe was stolen from a magazine in a nail salon.”
“Aha! Youarea criminal. I knew it.” Jake beams with satisfaction. I can’t help but giggle as I move through the kitchen, grabbing the tools I’ll need and lining everything up neatly on the island. Jake rests his chin on his fist as he watches with amusement.
“Are you always like this?” he asks.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Just so… precise. I mean, everything is so orderly. Doesn’t it get exhausting?”
“I like order,” I reply as I whisk the milk into my dry ingredients. “It makes me feel… I don’t know, calm, I guess.”
Jake nods. “I wish I were more like you sometimes. I’ve got a small following on TikTok, but I’m not organized enough to really grow my social media presence. Maybe I’d be a bit further in my career by now if I had your level of discipline.”
“But you’ve got talent. I mean, you’re an absolutely amazing performer.” My cheeks heat with my unintentional confession.Way to play it cool, Lex.
At my praise, Jake’s face lights up. “Well, let’s hope the music industry shares your sentiments. I’m off to LA on Monday to record my demo album.”
I’m so shocked I nearly drop my whisk.
“Seriously?” I cringe slightly at the shrillness of my own voice. I recalibrate, attempting to make it sound as normal as possible. “That’s amazing!” Jake’s face splits into a grin, dimple smirking, and my stomach does a tiny flip. “So, how does that work, exactly? Are your songs already written?”
“Mostly. Just need one or two more. Most demos only have about four or five songs anyway. After that, I’ll start sending it out to record labels and agents, maybe even try to score some radio time.” The last sentence comes out in a rush, his voice laced with both excitement and apprehension.
“Why LA?” I ask. “Aren’t there recording studios in New York?”
“My college buddy Elliot works in a recording studio out there. He’s able to get me in for practically nothing.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Dive-bar gigs don’t exactly pay big bucks, after all.”
He leans back in his seat and shrugs, as if to suggest the process is no big deal. But I can see the fire in his eyes, can hear the desire in his tone. He wants to be successful, and he wants it bad. It strikes me how similar we are in that way.
“You’ll be great,” I say. Grabbing a lemon from the bowl on my counter, I slice it in half and squeeze the juice into my batter. The dash of acidity will make the flavor of the berries pop.
A few minutes later, breakfast is ready. Ten fluffy pancakes, precisely uniform in height and circumference, are stacked neatly on a plate. Grabbing a couple of forks, a stick of butter, and a bottle of syrup, I walk around the island to take a seat on the barstool next to Jake. He loads a few pancakes onto his plate, dousing them with syrup before taking an enormous bite. His eyes flutter shut as he hums in appreciation, and warm pleasure rushes through me. Watching someone enjoy the food I’ve made is hands down my favorite thing about cooking.
“I’m sorry, Alexa Danielle Berman, but your instructor has no idea what he’s talking about. You are a phenomenal cook.”
“Why, thank you, Jacob Aaron Taylor.” I pour some syrup into the center of my pancake before cutting it into four even pieces.
“Who knew there was lemon in blueberry pancakes?” he muses, before stuffing another bite in his mouth.
“Their complementary flavors make the perfect pairing,” I explain. “They’re made for each other.” Jake turns toward me and his eyes lock with mine. A long moment passes. Then, mercifully, he breaks the spell, twisting in his chair to survey the living room.
“This is quite a place you’ve got here.” I follow his gaze as his eyes drift around the room. He’s too polite to say it out loud, but I know what he’s really thinking:How can you, a full-time student in her early twenties, afford to live alone in a classic six on Park Avenue?
I keep my eyes on my plate as I mumble an answer to his unspoken question. “I can only afford it because there isn’t any rent. The apartment is paid off. It belonged to my parents. My family, really. I grew up here.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake freeze. He turns his head slowly, his gaze burning right through me. Heart thumping, I shove a bite of pancake into my mouth, but I barely taste it.
“Belonged to your parents?” he asks tentatively. “Where are they now?”
