I grab a pot and fill it with water, then set it on the stove, which I’m thankful is gas. There’s nothing worse than trying to cook without a flame.
I take the cheese to the cutting board, flipping through a few cabinets before I find a grater. It’s cheap, but it’ll do.
“What are you doing?” Ezra asks again.
I don’t spare him a glance. “I already told you, I’m making food.”
“I can make my own food.”
“I’m sure you can, just like I’m sure you’re going to be here late tonight, and it’s clear you’re hungry. So just shut up and let me do this, will you?”
Oh my god. I just told my boss to shut up.
I dare a peek over my shoulder, and I’m surprised to find that he’s now resting against a table, watching me as I work.
I ignore just how much I like that.
“Anything else?”
His lips twitch so quickly, it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.
He shakes his head. “No. It’s obvious you’re going to be stubborn about this, too, so do whatever you want. I’dloveto see what you’re going to make that I can’t make for myself.”
All his words do is give me motivation to make him the best damn macaroni and cheese he’s ever had. It’ll be hard, since I’m working with so little, but I’m determined.
I work silently, acutely aware of Ezra’s eyes on me the whole time. I feel it when I salt the water for the pasta, when I grate the cheese, and when I chop the parsley left in the fridge. In every shake of onion andgarlic powder. And especially when I add the dash of cayenne for an extra kick.
It’s exhilarating, and not just because he’s watching me so closely. No, it’s being in a kitchen again. Sure, I’m making something simple, and this kitchen kind of sucks, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m cooking for someone other than myself and my father again.
It feels good. It feels like it used to, before everything blew up and I took off my chef’s whites for the last time.
Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake, walking away from Lore. I wonder if I was too rash and stressed with trying to keep up and prove myself capable of running my own crew. Would things be different if I hadn’t started to feel stagnant so soon afterfinallygetting what I had been working toward? Would I still be here in Washington, or would I be back in Chicago, bossing everyone around? Would I have still folded under all the pressure, or would I have made it through the rough patch?
I don’t know the answer to any of it, so I pack those thoughts away for another time and refocus on the task at hand—the dish. When it’s finished, I scrounge for bowls and portion us each a healthy helping, then top it with the parsley and a little crack of pepper.
He lifts his brows as I hand him the final product. “Mac and cheese, really?”
I glower at him. “Just try it, you big baby.”
His eyes darken as he takes the bowl, his fingers brushing over mine just slightly. He’s warm, which is a stark contrast to how cold he comes across.
I ignore that, then stab my fork into the noodles, taking a bite so I don’t do something silly like speak my inner thoughts out loud.
Ezra does the same, although much more tentatively, and I watch him closely for his reaction.
I see the moment he decides it’s good, and that’s because it is. It’sreallyfucking good, all things considered.
“Holy shit,” he says, going for another bite. “This is ... actually good.”
I’m too glad he likes it to be bothered by his insinuation that he expected it not to be. “I told you.”
“This is way better than whatever we put in our mac and cheese bites.” He shovels another forkful into his mouth, chews, then swallows. “How do you know how to cook?”
“I wasn’t in Chicago for a guy. I was there for culinary school.”
He pauses, his fork hanging in the air between us, the gooey mac and cheese slipping off his utensil and back into the bowl. “What?”
I shrug, moving to stand next to him, crossing one leg over the other as I hide behind my dinner. “I’ve been working in a kitchen for years. I was an executive chef at a restaurant called Lore before I moved back here.”
