Page 25 of Never In My Wildest Dreams

“I like Gruyère in eggs.”

“Oh, I like that one. They use it in galettes in Brittany.”

He found himself trying to connect the dots. Those fig sweats were expensive—definitely a cashmere blend—and she knew enough about a region in France that produced buckwheat crepes, and yet she used bags of shredded cheese and only ate food from gift baskets. He’d like to ask questions but knew she didn’t want to go there.

She pulled a knife from the block, noted the serrated edge, and put it back in. She tried a few others before she settled on a short one used for paring. And then, she started shaving bits of cheese off the wedge. “Is this small enough?” She picked up a few slices to show him.

“Sure, I can use that.” He spoke gently, careful not to embarrass her. “Might be easier to use the grater.”

“Oh, right. Of course. That’s what you asked me to do.” She glanced around. “All right. Just point me in the right direction, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“That drawer right over there.” Since she’d lived there for three months, he figured she’d know where everything was. Even if she didn’t cook, wouldn’t she still have gone through the drawers to get the lay of the land?

As he beat the eggs with a fork and added salt and pepper, she held the block of cheese to the metal basket and got to work. “You have to be a serious chef to go through all this for some scrambled eggs.”

Her grin set off explosions in his chest. “It tastes better.”

“I think, for so long, food was just fuel, that I didn’t appreciate how things taste. Maybe these eggs will make me pay more attention.” She worked with intensity as if the fate of the world was in her hands. Her hair shimmied, and her fingers were red with cold.

He was so busy studying her, he failed to notice the amount of cheese she’d grated for just six eggs. “Whoa. That’s good. That’s more than enough.”

“Really?” She lifted the grater to reveal a mountain of it. “Right when I get the hang of it, you make me stop?” She seemed proud of herself. Rinsing her fingers in the cold water, she grabbed a dishtowel and dried off. “Now what?”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.” She sorted through a basket of pods. “Which flavor do you like?”

“Flavor?” He glanced over to see a machine. “What the hell’s that? It’s not mine.”

“No, I bought it.” She laughed. “You saidflavorlike I replaced your gourmet cheese with Velveeta. Or swapped your jeans out for polyester stretch pants.”

He had sounded pretty offended. “That tracks.”

“Well, I needed coffee, and this seemed the easiest way to go.”

“How do you drink it at home?” he asked.

The natural pink in her cheeks deepened. At first, he thought she wouldn’t answer, and he felt like a dick for making her feel somehow inferior for her preferences. But then, she tipped her chin. “I drink whatever someone’s making.”

“Got it. You don’t need coffee to survive.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Huh. Was she a doctor? So busy she didn’t have time to take care of herself—maybe grabbed coffee from a pot in the break room? “Well, I’ve got a French press.” He reached for the cabinet and opened it. “Top shelf, if you can grab it.”

She pulled down the glass container. “Yes, this is what my—” Her jaw snapped shut, and she cut him a look. “This is what we use at home. I just don’t know how to work it.”

“Just heat some water, okay?” He didn’t have a kettle, so he handed her a small saucepan. “Here.”

“This is way more complicated than pods.”

“Maybe, but they’re nowhere near as rich as the coffee you get from grinding your own beans.” He stepped away from the stove to reach for the bag she’d left on the counter. “I get this from Calamity Joe’s, a coffee shop in town. You’ll see the difference.”

She filled the pan and set it on the stove, firing up the burner.

“After I get the bacon going, I’ll show you how it works.” He got another skillet out and set the slices on it. His stomach grumbled at the familiar scent.

“I know, right?” She laughed. “I’m starving, too.”

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