“Sounds a lot like a football play.”
She gives an approving smile. “It kind of is. And sometimes you have to call an audible.”
That’s speaking my language. “Cooking and football. I love it. What’s next? Teach me to cook like we talked about. I want to learn.”
“It’s all about the knife,” she says, spinning around to snag one from the knife block, then wielding the sharp blade.
“Got it. Good knives rule.”
“And a little seasoning goes a long way,” she adds as she sets the asparagus on the cutting board and chops a few stalks. But she stops mid slice. “Wait. You were raised by a single mom. She never taught you to cook?”
I wag a finger. “Brooke. Did you just assume all single moms cook?”
She holds up adown, boyhand. “No. I make no assumptions. But your mom raised a smart, thoughtful man, who holds doors for women and calls when he says he will, so Ideduceshe taught you life skills, like laundry and how to balance a bank account,” she says, returning to her chopping.
I waggle my fingers toward the knife. “My turn. I learn by doing.”
She hands me the utensil.
I slide in next to her and take over chopping theasparagus. “Mom did teach me. Or rather, she tried to teach me, but I was a sports-obsessed, high-energy kid, so guess what happened at dinnertime?”
“She sent you out to race around the block?” she asks as she turns on the stove, drizzles some olive oil in the pan.
“Welcome to my childhood. I was like a dog who needed to be run.” I finish the asparagus, then nod toward the frying pan. “Just drop it in?”
“You got it, handsome.” She takes over, sautéing the asparagus with some pre-cut tofu. “Why don’t you grab some pepper and salt? Top cabinet to the right.”
“Just pepper and salt?” I ask as I comply.
“Sometimes simple is best.”
“Like hanging out here in your house with you,” I say, and wow. I sound like a lust-struck fool.
But I don’t mind.
Ten minutes later, we finish cooking, and together we plate the food, grab some drinks, then sit at her counter.
She hands me a bottle of pale ale, then pours herself some chardonnay. “To trouble,” she says, raising the glass to toast. “Our parallel universe full of good, dirty trouble.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, my chest tingling at those words. After our toast, I take a bite and moan. “Damn, I’m a good cook.”
She laughs. “It’s all you, Drew.”
“Maybe I had a little help,” I concede. “Now, tell me more about you and Cara.”
“Because Patrick is sweet on her?”
I scoff. “I’m not his keeper. He can be sweet on whoever he wants. I want to know more about her because”—I stop, lean closer, and dust a kiss to her cheek—“I’m into her sister. I want to know more about the important people in your life.”
She dips her face, then purses her lips like she’s hiding a smile. As we eat, she tells me more about their antics growing up. She asks about my sisters and I chat about them.
Then, I ask if she’s liking her new job. “Is the promotion what you want?”
“It is. I love it. Checking out contracts, looking for loopholes and technicalities. It’s just my speed.”
“That’s so very you,” I say.
“It is. I’m still a little shocked I got the job,” she says.