Jake was parkedin my driveway when I got home. I’d called him after our study group decided we’d gotten enough accomplished, and he said he’d meet me... but I wasn’t quite expecting him to beat me here.
The moment I got out of my car, Jake swept me into his arms. I felt him press his lips to my hair. I held him back just as mightily. “I missed you today,” I said. “I’m sorry I was so mean.”
“You weren’t mean at all,” he said. “I’m sorry we bothered you for so long. We should know better than most that studying is a part of life in law school. You can’t get it all done in the classroom.”
Unfortunately, he was right, and I hadn’t counted on that. I got through my paralegal program with such little difficulty that I had gone into law school with a little bit of an inflated ego. I’d definitely been knocked back a peg or two since the beginning of the semester. I looked up at Jake. “Kiss me, please?”
His lips were on mine within the next breath. It wasn’t chaste, but he didn’t try to deepen it. “Let’s go inside?” he asked. “I’ll make you dinner.”
I smirked. “You’re going to cook for me?”
Jake nodded and pointed to the grocery bags that I hadn’t seen on my porch. “Stir-fry all right with you?”
Anything that didn’t come from takeout would be all right with me. “Sounds great.”
I led him inside. “It’s not a five bedroom, Spanish-style, but...” I shrugged. “It’ll do.”
Jake looked around. “It’s nice,” he said without hesitation. “Where’s the kitchen?” I showed him the small space, no bigger than a dorm kitchen, and I tried not to think of his massive chef’s kitchen. Why didn’t I just meet him at his house? But instead of saying anything snarky, or worse, overly bright and cheerful, he just started opening my cabinets and pulling out the pans that he needed.
“Do you need help?”
He shook his head. “There’s wine in one of the bags. Open it and let it breathe?”
Wine has to breathe?“Sure thing,” I said and opened a drawer to paw out my little-used bottle opener. I fetched the bottle of red from the bag and looked at it. The label was written in French. That alone gave me pause. “Just how nice is this wine?” I asked and pushed the sharp end of the opener into the wine’s cork seal.
“It’s not nice enough that you should feel uncomfortable,” Jake promised, “but nice enough that it’s good.”
It was scary how my men understood me without my having to say anything. “I’m not sure I know ‘good’ wine from the three-dollar bottles, honestly.”
Jake wasnotimpressed with that. “You will after tonight,” he promised, and while he cooked, he talked about wine. How it was processed, how long aging it could affect the flavor, the best places in the world to get it, etc. Normally, I’d find this kind of conversation to be wholly pretentious, but he was so honestly enthusiastic about the subject. He wasn’t trying to impress me. “I should take you to Napa one weekend,” he mused out loud. “They grow some of the best grapes in the country. It would awaken your inner wine connoisseur.”
I snorted. “You’re so sure that I have one of those?”
“Everyonecan appreciate a good wine if given the correct opportunity,” he said in an exaggerated, snooty fashion.
We laughed, and as the food was finishing up, Jake dished everything out and shooed me toward my tiny table. “This is nice,” I said as he placed a plate in front of me.
“Having a meal cooked for you?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, though that is really great,” I said with a wink that made him snort. “Being here with you,” I clarified. “It’s nice.”
Jake sat in the chair across from me and poured out two glasses of the wine. “It is nice,” he said, handing the stemmed glass to me, clinking it gently with his own. He watched me sip it, and I had to admit, it tasted fantastic. A little dry, but it paired nicely with the beef in the stir-fry.
“It’s good,” I said, knowing that he was looking for some kind of response. “Not sure I’d know it from the three-dollar bottle, but it’s good.”
Jake shook his head, but his expression was entirely fond. “You would,” he insisted, and while he was right, I was having too much fun teasing him.
Along with his excellent taste in wine, Jake was also an aspiring chef. The stir-fry was seasoned and prepared to perfection, and he’d done it in my shitty starter pans that had needed to be replaced ages ago. “Is there anything you aren’t good at?” I asked, forking another broccoli floret into my mouth.
He screwed up his face, thinking. “Nope,” he said finally, grinning widely. “I’m just perfect.”
I touched his hand and entwined our fingers. “I know you’re joking,” I said, “but I could argue that you’re a pretty terrific boyfriend.”
We hadn’t used that terminology yet, and I had been wanting to try it out. From the soft look in Jake’s eyes, I had made the right decision. “I’ve never had a better girlfriend,” he countered. My heart pounded in my chest. I liked that word too, girlfriend.
“You were married,” I said.
Jake rolled his eyes. “I got a divorce.”