down. “Are you sure it’s not stiff enough?”
He chuckled. “Trust me, it’s nowhere near stiff enough—it still needs work. Move your hand faster.”
I groaned and tried again. “I can’t, Byron. I have no idea how you do this every day.”
“I don’t do it every day. In fact, I’m probably out of practice since you moved in.”
I snorted. “I don’t ask for it that often.”
“Often enough. You’ve been cheating—I’m trying to teach you the right way of doing this. Faster, Julia. Do it faster. It won’t work otherwise, and you’ll have nothing.”
I worked my hand as quick as I could. Over and over, I repeated the pattern, but nothing.
He held me back against his chest, his arms coming around my front. His lips grazed my ear. “Do you want me to do it?”
“Yes.”
I felt his smirk. “You want to watch me?”
“Yes.”
With an exaggerated sigh, he lifted me to the counter. “Watch my hand.”
Two minutes later, he stopped. “Voilà! Stiff as can be. Perfect.”
I leaned forward and peeked in the bowl. He was right.
Perfect whipped cream.
With a grin, I dragged my finger through the white clouds and lifted it to my mouth. Before I could take a lick, Byron grabbed my finger and pulled it between his lips, his tongue sliding over my skin. I shuddered at the sensation, giggling when he gently bit down, tugging on the end of my finger.
“I wanted a taste.” I pouted at him. “I got it started for you.”
With a laugh, he dipped his finger in and held it up to me. I leaned forward, gasping when he grinned and covered the end of my nose with the cream, then kissed it off. “Hey!”
His smile was wide. So wide, his eyes crinkled and he laughed. Relenting, he slipped his finger into my mouth so I could have a taste.
“Mmm. Good.” I grinned at him. “But really, Byron. That’s what mixers are for.”
“Mixers are shortcuts. I was taught to beat the cream by hand.” He frowned at me. “What if there was an electrical failure? How would you beat the cream then, hmm?”
I giggled. “If there was an electrical failure, Byron, I probably caused it while burning dinner. I doubt I’d be worried about whipping cream for dessert.”
He laughed again and rewarded me with another of his kisses. “Point taken.”
My cooking hadn’t improved much in the months I’d been living with Byron. I could now make pancakes from scratch, but I still got distracted easily. Byron’s griddle had been replaced twice. So now, the past couple Sundays, he made the pancakes, and I sliced the strawberries and whipped the cream. The first time I pulled out the store-bought can of whipped cream from the refrigerator, he almost passed out with fright. I was forced to listen to his lecture on the dangers of what was in the can, not to mention the poor quality of the product. I didn’t dare tell him about the Cool Whip in the freezer. I simply disposed of it the next day on my way to school. The next week, I bought a carton of the right cream, and he watched, amused, as I pulled up instructions for how to whip it using the expensive mixer he had in his high-tech kitchen. This week, he informed me he was teaching me how to do it properly—he even put a copper bowl and whisk in the freezer to get them cold.
Sundays were officially my favorite day of the week. I made sure to have all my schoolwork done and the house tidy. I had given up my part-time jobs, except for being a TA, and since Byron refused to accept much money for me living here, I liked to keep it clean. He knew I had to feel as if I was contributing, and I liked doing things in an effort to look after him. He said we made a great team. He did the cooking; I did the cleaning.
We stayed up late on Saturday nights after Byron came home from the restaurant, slept in on Sundays, and spent the day together. We rarely left the house; in fact, some Sundays, we rarely left the bedroom, except to get something to eat. Even then, Byron would carry me downstairs on his back and sit me on the counter while he prepared some delicious dish. He let me do the basics and was always surprisingly patient with me. I had heard the way he carried on at times in the kitchen at the restaurant,