“I usually use a fork,” he said. “But fingers work as well. Just make sure you wash thoroughly after handling raw poultry.”
She dropped the chicken into the egg with a splash. “You didn’t say to use a fork.”
“You’re right,” he agreed.
She went to the sink to wash her hands.
While she was doing that, he turned on the element under the pan to heat the oil.
After soaping up and rinsing and drying her hands, Erin took a fork from the cutlery drawer and stabbed the chicken with the tines to lift it out of the egg mixture.
“Now transfer it to the bread crumbs and coat it evenly, using the fork to press the crumbs into the chicken.”
She followed his directions precisely, confirming his suspicion that she wasn’t actually a bad cook but had simply never been taught. As a result of her strained relationship with her mom, Erin had spent more time with her dad while she was growing up. Which explained why she knew how to bait a hook and gut a fish but not how to pan fry the fillets.
She was a good student, eager to do everything just right. And she looked not just earnest but sexy in the apron she’d donned to protect her clothes from spatters—though he imagined she’d look even sexier wearing nothing but the apron.
A thought he forced himself to tamp down on.
Again.
* * *
Two days later, Erin paced the short distance between the kitchen and the front door, peeking at the clock on the stove every time she completed a lap.
What had she been thinking, inviting Kyle for dinner?
He was a world-class chef and she was a website designer with a freezer full of microwavable meals.
But under his tutelage, she’d done a decent job with the chicken parm on her first run-through, if she did say so herself. Then she’d made it again on her own the next day, carefully following every step of his precise, handwritten directions. Still, she’d wanted to do another test run, to ensure that she’d feel confident about preparing the same meal for Anna and Nick.
Thankfully, Kyle knew her well enough that she could trust his expectations wouldn’t be too high. No doubt he’d consider himself lucky if he didn’t get food poisoning. The bigger mistake had been in offering to cook for her sister and brother-in-law.
Was she trying too hard to prove that she was okay with their marriage? And who was she proving it to? Neither Anna nor Nick had seemed the least bit concerned about Erin’s reaction to their relationship when she was home for Christmas, and why would they be? It had nothing to do with her.
Whatever romantic feelings she’d once had for Nick had fizzled away a long time ago. Sure, she had happy memories of the times they’d spent together, but those times were in the past—Anna and Nick were the present and future.
Okay, maybe she was a tiny bit envious that they’d managed to make the kind of romantic connection that had thus far eluded her. And maybe she was a little sad to consider the possibility that she might never make that connection with someone. Not that she was ready to throw in the towel at the age of thirty-one, because she was certain that she had a lot of good years ahead of her. Except that if the years behind were any indication, she shouldn’t get her hopes up, either. Because despite having dated a lot of great guys, she hadn’t been able to imagine spending the rest of her life with any one of them.
Truth be told, the longest relationship she’d had in the past several years was with Kyle, and the only reason that one had endured was that they were simply friends with no expectations of anything more. Well, if she was being perfectly honest, there had been occasional moments when she’d found herself wondering what if...
What if she snuggled up to him when they were watching TV on a rainy Sunday afternoon after brunch service at the restaurant?
What if she held on to his arm when they walked home together after closing the restaurant late on a Friday night?
What if she leaned forward and touched her lips to his mouth instead of his cheek when she thanked him for dropping off dinner for her?
What if she made a move and ruined everything?
It was the last what if that held her back from chancing any of the other scenarios.
That, and the fact that Kyle had never given any indication that he saw her as anything more than a friend.
Not until he’d shown up at her door early Sunday morning and caught her in her pj’s, and she’d caught a glimpse of something that might have been interest in his gaze.
Or maybe her sleep-deprived brain had imagined it.
In any event, that glimpse had been the beginning and the end of it. He’d been a consummate professional the whole time they’d worked side by side. Not just appropriate in his behavior but diligent in his teaching, because she’d actually managed to turn out something that tasted like chicken parmesan.
Of course, he’d been instructing and encouraging every step of the way, but she’d done the work. And he’d been proud of her—he’d even told her so, his words bolstering her shaky confidence.
And if she’d felt her body temperature rise in the close confines of her kitchen, it was obviously a one-sided awareness that warmed only her blood, made only her skin tingle whenever they touched, and fueled only her nighttime fantasies.
She jolted at the knock on the door, despite the fact that she’d been waiting for it.
“You’re right on time,” she said, ushering Kyle through the apartment and into the kitchen.
“I wouldn’t dare be late and risk spoiling the meal you’ve prepared,” he said.
She was grateful for that—all too aware that he’d had to entrust the restaurant kitchen to his staff while he slipped away for a short while, just because she asked.
“I appreciate your willingness to be my guinea pig,” she said, plating the food she’d prepared and setting it in front of him.
He waited for her to sit down across from him before he picked up his knife and fork. There was a slight furrow between his brows as he scrutinized her culinary offering.
“The chicken is a good, uniform thickness,” he said. “But why is it round?”
“Because it’s not chicken,” she told him. “It’s eggplant.”
“Were you sick of chicken? Or was there another reason you decided to change the menu?” he asked curiously.
“I got a text from my sister last night,” she explained. “‘FYI, in case Mom didn’t tell you, I’m a vegetarian now.’”
“Now?” he echoed. “Does that mean she stopped eating meat sometime between Saturday afternoon, when she told you they were coming to Haven, and last night?”
Erin shook her head. “Apparently it was part of her New Year’s resolution to live a healthier lifestyle.”
“I haven’t even met your sister and already I don’t like her,” he said.
“Because she doesn’t eat meat?”
“Because she’s obviously so spoiled that she expects everyone to indulge her whims.”
“I don’t think that vegetarianism is a whim,” she felt compelled to argue in her sister’s defense.
But she couldn’t deny that Anna was spoiled, even if her little sister’s expectations were simply a consequence of her experience.
“At least she’s not vegan,” she said now, “so I didn’t have to worry about cutting the dairy ingredients.”
“Life wouldn’t be worth living without butter,” Kyle said sincerely, as he cut into his eggplant.
Erin’s gaze followed his fork as it moved from his plate to his mouth. He chewed slowly, then swallowed, his expression giving nothing away.
“It tastes good,” he finally said. “The breading is nice and crisp, and the sauce has good flavor.”
“But?” she prompted, because she could hear the unspoken word in his voice.
“The texture of the eggplant is a littl
e...mushy.”
She sampled a bite from her own plate. “Ugh. It is mushy.”
“A little,” he acknowledged.
“Why? What did I do wrong?” She didn’t try to disguise the frustration in her voice.
“Did you sweat the eggplant?” he asked.
“I sweated while cooking the eggplant,” she said.
Kyle shook his head, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sweating just means you salt the veg to draw out the excess moisture before cooking.”
“The recipe didn’t say anything about sweating,” she protested.
“It’s not always necessary,” he said. “But it’s a step that, sometimes, if you skip it, results in mushy eggplant.”
She dropped her fork onto her plate and pushed it aside, her appetite lost. “Why did I ever think I could do this?”
“Because you can do anything you put her mind to,” he told her.
“Clearly not.”
“This is just a little bump in the road,” he assured her.
“They’re coming tomorrow.” She dropped her head into her hands. “Maybe I should order a vegetarian lasagna from Diggers’.”
“Before you do that, maybe you could take out the knife between my shoulder blades?”
His outraged tone made her smile, just a little. “I know you could make a better vegetarian lasagna,” she acknowledged. “But you’ve already done so much for me.”
“I haven’t done very much at all,” he denied.
She sighed. “I had no idea how much work putting together a single meal would be.”
“Cooking is work,” he agreed. “But it can also be a joy, feeding the soul as much as the body.”
“You can spare me the philosophy—I just wanted to be able to put dinner on the table.”
“And you’ve done that.”
“I fed you mushy eggplant.” She sighed. “I know I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be. It’s just...”
“It’s just what?” he prompted.
“My family always teases me about being a lousy cook, and I want to prove that I’m not.”
“You’re not a lousy cook,” he assured her. “But even if you were—so what? We all have our areas of expertise. Why does it matter if you’re not comfortable in the kitchen? Julia Child might have made French cuisine accessible to American audiences, but I bet she couldn’t design a website.”
“Who’s Julia Child?”
He winced at her response even as he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have other talents.”
“None that are going to feed a husband or child.” She sighed again. “If I ever get married and have a family of my own.”
“So marry a man who can cook,” he said, as if it was that easy.
But his suggestion did start her thinking...
“It’s too bad we’re friends,” she teased. “Otherwise, we might be perfect for one another.”
Kyle’s expression was serious as he held her gaze across the table. “Yeah, it’s too bad.”
Chapter Three
Once a month, Erin met Lucy for a late breakfast at the Sunnyside Diner. Her college pal had quickly transformed from stranger to best friend when they were assigned a room together, and it was because of Lucy that Erin had first visited the northern Nevada town that was now her home.
A lot had happened in the thirteen years since they were freshmen together—though, if Erin was honest, more in her friend’s life than her own. Lucy and Claudio—who were coming up on their seventh anniversary—were essentially running Jo’s Pizza, living in a new home they’d had built near the restaurant, were the doting parents of a three-year-old Corgi and enthusiastically working toward adding a human baby to their family.
As a result of being at the pizzeria late almost every night, Lucy was habitually running behind schedule in the mornings, so Erin usually took advantage of the time to catch up on emails and savor a first cup of coffee while she waited. But when she pulled into the parking lot of the diner Wednesday morning, she saw that her friend’s SUV was already there.
“Am I late?” she asked, glancing at the time displayed on her phone as she slid onto the vinyl bench seat across from Lucy.
“No,” her friend assured her. “I was early for a change.”
“Are you sick?” she asked teasingly.
“No. And I’m not pregnant, either,” Lucy said, obviously feeling discouraged by a recent negative test result.
“Did you really expect it to happen the first time you guys had unprotected sex?”
“No,” her friend admitted. “But I’ll bet there are a bunch of teenage girls who didn’t think it would happen that way for them, either, only to be proven wrong by two little lines on a stick.”
Good point, Erin acknowledged to herself.
“On the plus side, not being pregnant means that you and Claudio get to keep trying,” she said, urging her friend to find a silver lining.
“There is that,” Lucy agreed, with a small smile.
Erin thanked the server who filled her coffee cup, then topped up Lucy’s, too.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked.
“I’ll have the Mediterranean omelet today,” Lucy said. “With whole wheat toast and a side of sausage.”
The server nodded and shifted her attention to Erin.
“The banana pecan pancakes,” she decided.
“Bacon or sausage?”
“Both, please.”
“Bacon and sausage?” Lucy said, when the server had moved on. “You must be hungry this morning.”
“I’m cooking a vegetarian meal for dinner, so I figured I should get my meat quota in early.”
“Give me a minute,” her friend said, holding up a hand in a universal “stop” gesture. “I’m trying to figure out if I’m more shocked by the vegetarian part or the fact that you’re cooking.”
Lucy sipped her coffee, considering.
“The cooking,” she decided.
“Ha ha,” Erin said, unamused.
“I wasn’t being funny,” her friend remarked. “I know how your relationship with the hunky firefighter started.”
She sighed. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Not in this lifetime,” Lucy promised.
“Well, not everyone thinks I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
“Because not everyone has seen you try to crack an egg.”
“Kyle assured me that a little bit of shell never hurt anyone.”
Lucy paused with her mug halfway to her mouth. “Has my brother expanded your prep duties at the restaurant?”
“No, he’s...um...teaching me how to cook.”
Her friend set her coffee down again without drinking. “He’s teaching you to cook?”
“He’s not trying to turn me into a chef or anything—I mean, he’s good, but he’s not a miracle worker,” Erin said. “He just helped me with some basics.”
She smiled her thanks to the server when she delivered their meals—along with a carafe of warm maple syrup for her pancakes.
“I’m surprised he has any time for extracurricular cooking,” Lucy mused.
“Not a lot,” Erin agreed.
“So...tell me about this vegetarian meal you mentioned.”
Erin poured syrup over her pancakes. “Eggplant parmesan with spaghetti.”
“Actually, I’m more interested in the why than the what,” her friend said.
“Because my sister and her husband are coming for a visit.”
“When did your sister get married?”
“She and Nick eloped in Vegas on Saturday.”
Lucy sliced off a corner of her omelet. “You know that awkward family gathering you endured at Christmas? I see a lot more of thos
e in your future,” she predicted.
“It wasn’t really so awkward,” Erin said. “More...unexpected.”
“So...how far along is she?” her friend asked curiously.
Erin frowned. “Why does everyone assume a quick wedding means a pregnant bride?”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Just you and Kyle,” she confided. “But you’re the only two people I’ve told.”
“Are you sure that she’s not pregnant?” Lucy pressed.
“No,” she admitted. “But I can’t imagine Anna being careless about birth control.”
“There are a lot of reasons that birth control can fail.” Lucy poked at a sausage link. “And apparently a lot of reasons that some women don’t get pregnant even when they’re not using birth control.”
“It will happen,” Erin said confidently. “I know it will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I can’t think of any two people who would make better parents than you and Claudio.” She said the words not only to reassure her friend, but also because they were true, and was rewarded with a small smile from Lucy.
“Now, back to your sister and your ex-boyfriend now brother-in-law,” she said. “Should we make a bet on when the baby’s due?”
* * *
Kyle had absolutely no doubts when he was in the kitchen. It was the one place where he knew that he wasn’t just in charge but in control. The place where he’d always been the most comfortable.
So why was he leaving the dinner service in the (admittedly more-than-capable) hands of his sous-chef, Giselle Parsons, to join Erin’s sure-to-be-awkward family dinner?
It was a question he didn’t know how to answer—especially considering that Erin hadn’t even invited him to share the meal she was preparing. Because she knew that he worked at the restaurant on Wednesday nights.
And yet here he was, standing outside her apartment, more concerned about Erin than the preparation and presentation of the beef tenderloin with scallops Oscar—one of the restaurant’s featured menu items tonight.
But would his presence send the wrong message to his friend?
He wanted only to offer moral support, but now that he was knocking on her door, he worried that Erin might think he didn’t trust her to prepare the meal.
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