said, “but found some of it in the cabinets. The wine is old, but I can compensate for that. I threw away half the stuff you had in your fridge. Not that there was much to begin with. It looked like a petri dish in there.”
Still he stared. Was he hoping for a magic trick or something?
“Look, if I’d known you wanted a staring contest, I would’ve brushed my teeth,” she groused.
“Looks like you’re making a gourmet meal.” His gaze roamed her ingredients. “How’d you learn to cook like this off food stamps?”
She gritted her teeth at his suspicious tone, feeling that fire she’d thought had dulled kindle in her middle. Apparently, it had been waiting for him to get on her nerves.
She tried to keep the aggression and defensiveness out of her voice. It was his house and she was a guest—she’d best remember that or she’d get kicked out on her butt.
“I had to get creative. When you have three ingredients, most of which have passed their expiration date, you need an imagination.”
He leaned more heavily on the counter, now able to peer directly at her face. “I can tell when you evade questions because you’re uncomfortable. What’s the real reason?”
“Know me that well already, do you?”
“You’re not that hard to read, Charity. Why?”
“Why is this a big deal?” She sighed like a teenager who’d been told to clean her room. “I imagined I was in a top restaurant in New York, okay? I’d retreat into my head, envisioning myself somewhere else, in someone else’s life, and make a dish out of whatever was lying around. As I got older, it became my happy place. We were poor, yes, but if I could help it, I didn’t eat that way. Happy now?”
He grunted, apparently satisfied. “Make some for me. I’m starving.”
As he moved away, he adjusted his shirt and smoothed his pants, surely trying to perfect his already immaculate appearance.
“Oh hey”—she snapped her fingers—“I forgot to tell you. I put your runway out back. It was getting in the way. You’ll have to practice your Zoolander poses out there.”
He stopped smoothing his pants. A slight red hue colored his cheeks. “Cute,” he said with a scowl. He strode toward the front room.
Smirking, she went back to her task. She couldn’t beat ’em, or join ’em, but she could surely make fun of ’em!
A half-hour later, she feigned nonchalance as she placed his plate on the coffee table in front of him. The ingredients were simple, but she’d made sure the taste and presentation were elevated. Given all she’d done wrong since she’d met him, she wanted to impress him with one thing she could do right.
Without saying a word, she retreated to the recliner in the corner, desperately trying not to be obvious as she peeked at his face. She’d cooked for Samantha a time or two, and that had gone over well, but Devon was so exacting that she was afraid he’d pick out each flaw.
He lowered his phone to the side and studied the contents of the plate. “Where’s the meat?”
So then, more of a broad strokes kind of guy when it came to food.
She huffed out a laugh and settled down with her meal.
“I didn’t have any. A portabella is similar, though. Kinda.”
He scowled before sawing into the mushroom, his movements coarse and unrefined compared with her former roommate’s. It meant, unlike Samantha, he hadn’t spent his life in fine restaurants across the country.
A stress knot eased out of Charity’s shoulders.
Devon popped the bite into his mouth as he surveyed the TV. His head jerked down to his plate. “Mmmm.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Jesus, Chastity, this is good. I had no idea vegetables could taste this good. Weird.”
Apparently that nickname would stick. Great.
Except she found she really didn’t mind all that much. A smile wrestled with her lips as a thread of pride wormed through her.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Devon shouted, back to bending over his plate.
Andy sauntered into the room with wild, windswept hair, a T-shirt with little holes running along the seams on his shoulders, and the smell of the sea.
He plopped down on the couch opposite Devon, the closest seat to her. “Charity, my Charity, how goes it?”
“Hi, Andy. Hey, I didn’t mention the other day, but I recognize you from—”
“Whatcha eatin’?” His head swiveled to Devon and then back to her. “Did you cook?” He leaned closer. “Did you make any for me?”
“Oh. Sorry,