the top vent of the stove and I could smell bread burning. I stared dumbfounded, until the screech of the smoke alarm startled me. And with heart-pounding horror, I realized while staring at the mess that was supposed to be dinner, I had lit the dish towel I’d flung on the counter on fire with the torch and it was now in flames.
I had officially burned dinner and set Byron’s kitchen on fire.
I looked around frantically, a hysterical laugh escaping my throat.
What the hell else could happen?
In wild desperation, I grabbed another dish towel and tried to smack at the flames in front of me. The second towel caught fire and, without thinking, I tried slapping the flames with my hands. I caught the edge of the platter I had brought from the dining room to put the bread on—Byron’s favorite platter he had bought in Italy—and watched with horror as it tumbled over the edge of the counter, shattering into millions of shards as it hit the ceramic tiles.
The door from the garage was flung open, and Byron rushed in, stopping dead at the sight of me standing, flabbergasted, one burning dishtowel in my hand, while the other smoked away on the countertop. The sauce was still spitting everywhere, and rancid smoke now poured from the oven as the smoke detector screeched away.
“What the fuck?”
He moved fast. In three strides, he was across the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher, and pushing me out of the way. He tore the smoking dish towel from my hands and tossed it into the sink. He flicked off all the burners, slammed the lid on the boiling sauce, and swept everything on the countertop into the sink—brûlées and all—and doused the flames with the fire extinguisher he’d snatched from the counter. He grabbed the oven mitt and pulled open the oven door, seized the burning bread, and tossed it out the back door, before returning and staring at me, wide-eyed and confused.
“What on earth?”
I surveyed the damage I had done. Everything was ruined. Burned or destroyed. I barely felt him grab my wrists as he inspected my hands. “Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself? Julia?” He cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. “Julia, my love? Are you hurt?”
I blinked at him, dazed.
“I made you dinner. Happy birthday, Byron.”
Then I burst into tears.
Chapter 5
Julia
Byron’s arms were locked around me, holding me close, as he murmured small hushing noises. Over and over, he kept repeating everything was fine, as long as I wasn’t hurt, the rest didn’t matter. I kept crying. Finally, he drew back, cupping my face again and holding it tight.
“Yes, dinner is burned. We’ll throw it out and start again. The smoke is already disappearing. We’ll light a few candles, I’ll turn on the fan, open some windows, and the smell will be gone soon. It doesn’t matter, my love. As long as you’re okay, it doesn’t matter.”
“Your kitchen,” I hiccupped. “I burned your kitchen.”
“The cupboards will wipe down, and the counter is granite. It’s not damaged. It’s all fine, my girl. Look at me, please.”
His low voice and anxious tone made me look up. His eyes held nothing but tenderness and worry. He wasn’t angry.
“I broke your platter. Your favorite one.”
He kissed the end of my nose, wiping the tears from under my eyes with his thumbs. “I’ll call Giuseppe and ask him to send me another one.”
“I ruined dinner.”
“We can order pizza.”
Byron wasn’t big on pizza—at least, not the kind you could get for delivery.
“Gerard’s on standby,” I offered.
His eyebrow quirked. “Gerard knows about this?”
I sniffed. “He’s been teaching me. I wanted to make you dinner. Surprise you. I thought it was all under control—and then it wasn’t.”
Byron’s lips twitched. “Well, you certainly got the surprise part right.”
My eyes filled again. “I’m…so sorry.”
“Hush. No more crying. It was so sweet of you to try to make me dinner. I’m touched by your efforts.” He glanced toward the stove. “Maybe we can salvage something.”
“There are still two desserts in the fridge. They need the topping, though.”
“I think I’ll handle that part,” he stated dryly. “No more torches for you.”
“I have salad, and there’s bread I didn’t, ah, cut or burn.”
He hugged me. “See, that’s a good start. We can have that, and I’ll call Gerard. He’ll send some other things over, and we’ll be right back on track.”
I tried to pull out of his arms. “The mess—”
He didn’t let go. “There is glass everywhere. Your feet will