Page 116 of Back in the Saddle

“Stop being cute, or the pastitsio is gonna burn,” he warned.

I had to take a second to consider how committed I was to the perfection of the first dish I ever created.

I was leaning toward not fully committed at all when Eric spoke again.

“Babe, I’m hungry.”

There was humor in those three words.

Just as I liked it.

“You wanna help with the salad?” I asked.

“Yup,” he answered.

“I know how to slice and chop, so I need to practice my dressing chops. Can you slice and chop?”

“I can do that.”

I nabbed my wine, socked back a gulp, and said, “Let’s do this.”

He just grinned at me.

I went to the fridge.

FYI: in the end, the pastitsio was perfect.

But the only reason pursuing my new hobby of cooking solidified in my mind was seeing Eric’s face when he took the first bite.

So I decided I was going to make the Barefoot Contessa’s mocha icebox cake next.

And by next, I meant tomorrow.

The day after that, it was going to be her fettucine with mushrooms and truffle butter.

I had no earthly clue where to score truffle butter.

But as God was my witness, it was going to happen.

THIRTEEN

WHITE SHOE POLISH

“Honey.”

My hip was moving.

My eyes opened.

Barely.

“Hate to do this, your little snore is cute as fuck, but I don’t wanna sleep in my clothes for the third night in a row.”

I forgot I snored.

Braydon had thought it was cute too.

He said I sounded like a bunny.

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