“Two years. My mom decorated it. I told her I wanted a black and white theme but cozy, not modern and stark, and this is what she came up with,” he explains.
I nod. “She did an amazing job. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
He takes my hand and pulls me past the staircase, and my eyes go wide for what seems like the millionth time as I take in the full gourmet kitchen before me. It’s huge with a giant island in the center that’s lined with barstools. It’s an open floorplan, so while I stand here with the staircase at my back, the living room is to my right, the dining table is straight ahead, and the kitchen is more to my left. Perfect for keeping an eye on your kids while you’re trying to cook dinner. I always wanted to take down the walls between my kitchen, dining room, and living room to open it up like this, but Mike wanted the separation for when we threw dinners. Because God forbid anyone see where their food was prepared before it was served to them.
The stove, ovens—yes, as in plural—and everything else in the kitchen rivals the restaurant’s. Winston spared no expense for the culinary arts he’s so passionate about. Everything is sleek stainless steel with white subway tile as the backsplashes. Instead of upper cabinets, he has shelves upon shelves made from black industrial pipe and dark stained wood. They’re stacked neatly with white plates, glasses, and stainless steel and black pots and pans.
I’m still standing in the same spot, admiring the entire first floor, when I realize he’s already moved to the ridiculously huge refrigerator and is pulling out Tupperware containers. I move forward to the island and pull out one of the barstools, taking a seat and setting my purse on the one next to me.
“What are you going to make?” I ask, suddenly ravenous. The anxious butterflies from before have settled down, somehow calming the moment I stepped inside Winston’s home. It’s so comforting here, like coming home after being away for a while. So strange.
“I just made a fresh batch of my chicken and dumplings. Perfect for a nervous belly,” he says, dumping one of the containers full of the comfort food into a stock pot and then turning on the burner.
I smile. “So fancy. You could’ve just stuck it in the microwave to heat it up.”
He glances over his shoulder with a raised brow and shakes his head as if I just spoke something blasphemous, then goes back to stirring. Soon, the kitchen is filled with the delicious smells of chicken and pastries smothered in its thick stock, and my stomach growls angrily. He smirks as he turns off the flame and reaches above him for a bowl. He carefully dumps the pot of soup into the bowl, sets the pot into his huge trough-style sink, and opens one of the many drawers lining the bottom row of cabinetry. He pulls out a spoon and sticks it in the bowl of chicken and dumplings then slides it across the island to sit in front of me.
“Salt and pepper are there,” he tells me, pointing at the grinders at the edge of the island. “I don’t normally add any to mine to keep the sodium down.”
I blow on a spoonful and look at him over the steaming concoction. “Is that a health thing?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “More of a ‘either abs or salt, can’t have both’ type of thing,” he replies, and then winks when my eyes meet his once again after they unconsciously glanced down to take in said abs through his plain light-gray T-shirt. Abs I didn’t think existed outside of fitness magazines before I was pressed up against him in that refrigerator.
“Chicken and dumplings doesn’t sound like the healthiest thing in the world,” I point out and finally take my first bite. And my eyes roll back it’s so freaking good.
He smiles as I moan. “It fits in my macros. Just have to be careful with the rest of my meals for the day.”
“I’ve heard of that. I’m not very good at keeping up with anything for myself though. For my girls, yes. Total Pinterest mom with chore charts, lists, and all that out the wazoo. But for myself? I’m lucky if I remember to eat before I’m seeing spots at 2:00 p.m. and realize all I’ve had is coffee that day. But hey, I hear the kids these days call that intermittent fasting.” I grin, lifting my eyes from the bowl of yumminess to find that his smile has disappeared.
“You’ve gotta start taking better care of yourself, naekkeo. This isn’t the first time you’ve brushed this kind of thing off and made jokes about neglecting yourself,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. It sends tingles through my veins, seeming to light me up from the inside.