Page 14 of A Very Grumpy Chef

“I sleep naked,” I lie, a mischievous smirk tugging my lips.

“Coco,” he groans. “You’re killing me.”

“Okay, I’ll wear pajamas.”

“Great. I’ll see you in a few.”

I open my door and turn to watch him enter his apartment. He smiles at me as he goes inside, and I take a steadying breath as I close my front door.

Then I’m like a tornado.

I toss my purse onto the kitchen counter, set my camera and supply bag down next to it, and take off toward my bedroom.

Just as I expected, when I catch sight of my reflection in my dresser mirror, I wince. My mascara has smudged from my rubbing my eyes. My hair is half out of the ponytail I put it in this morning, and my shirt has a small stain from when I spilled my coffee on it earlier.

I look a mess.

I debate taking a shower, but I don’t want to keep Alec waiting any longer. Grabbing my comfiest pajamas, I brush my hair and braid it over my shoulder. I splash some water onto my face, washing off my makeup.

I check my appearance in the mirror again, pleased to see that I look better. Not such a mess anyway.

I wonder what Alec has planned as I slip on a pair of flip-flops and lock my door behind me. My stomach growls as I cross the hallway, and I pray he’s got food for us as I knock on his door.

The door swings open a second later, and my mouth waters at the sight of Alec in a plain white T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He looks so relaxed, but seeing him like this almost feels intimate.

“Hey,” I say shyly, suddenly nervous.

“Hey, come in. You look great.”

I snort as I look down at my pajamas with the teddy bears all over them. They were a gift from Pearl for my birthday, and while I don’t love the pattern, they’re super comfortable. “Thanks. You too.”

He closes the door behind me and takes my hand, leading me into the kitchen. “Do our apartments have the same layout?”

I nod. “Looks like it.”

“Okay, I won’t waste time giving you the tour then.”

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“I thought I’d cook for us, and we can hang out, watch a movie or something. How does that sound?”

I sigh. “Sounds perfect.”

“Good. What are you hungry for?” he asks, already opening his fridge.

“I’m not picky. Whatever is easiest,” I say, looking around his place.

It’s kind of sterile. No clutter. He has a couch, an end table, and a TV. That’s it in the living room. From what I can see of the bathroom from here, it’s pretty much the same. A razor and shaving cream sit on the counter next to the soap, and a single towel hangs on the bar.

The kitchen looks the most lived-in. Pots and pans, utensils, and spices I’ve never even heard of before are on the counter or peeking out of the cabinets. He has a dozen cookbooks stacked by the fridge, and a notebook next to it that he looks to be jotting ideas down in.

“How about chicken cordon bleu?” he asks.

“Sounds good. Please tell me you don’t need any help,” I joke.

He laughs. “No, you relax. Want something to drink?”

“A glass of wine?”