Page 104 of Practice Makes Perfect
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. The first thought as I turn back to the cutting board, resuming my methodical preparation, is how nice it is to have the old Mike back. The second is that Em will be here in less than an hour.
So, for now, I push thoughts of hockey and my mother and scouts to the back of my mind. Tonight isn’t about any of that. Tonight is about Em—about us—and seeing where this thing between us might go. And, as if on cue, my phone buzzes on the counter.
It’s from Em:
On my way. Can’t wait to see what you’re cooking up… and not just dinner.
A smile tugs at my lips as I read the message. Whatever else is going on in my life, this—right here, right now—feels like a win.
The sound of three light knocks has me practically leaping for the door. I’ve been ready for the past half hour, periodically checking the time, wiping down already-clean counters, and adjusting the dimmer switch exactly seventeen times. And, most important of all, the food is ready.
And so am I.
When I swing the door open, Em stands there in a simple black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and a hint of makeup accentuates her eyes. It takes me a second to remember how to form words.
“Hi,” I finally manage.
I lean forward and press a brief kiss to her lips—tentative, like we’re still figuring this out. Because we are. The party was two nights ago, and we haven’t seen each other since. We’ve texted non-stop, but this is our first official date as… whatever we are now.
“You look incredible,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” Her cheeks flush slightly. “You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
“I’m wearing a button-down and jeans,” I say. “You’re dressed for the catwalk…”
She grins. “You’ll just have to make up for it when we undress…”
I nearly choke, then take her by the hand. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” she replies, glancing around the apartment. “Smells amazing.”
I lead her through to the kitchen, where I’ve managed to set the small table. Two candles flicker in the center—I stole them from Mike’s emergency supply drawer, but Em doesn’t need to know that—and only a few other floor lamps provide dim lighting.
“Wow.” She pauses at the threshold, taking it all in… the food… the wine… the ambiance… “Consider me impressed. What are we having?”
“Chicken piccata with pasta, and” —I move to the oven, opening it dramatically— “fresh bread.”
“You made bread?” Her eyes widen. “Like, from scratch?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I pull the golden loaf from the oven, setting it on a cutting board to cool. “But yes, I made the bread,andthe pasta…”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a horn, then leans against the counter, watching me work. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My dad, actually.” I stir the chicken one last time before turning off the heat. “He works for a non-profit that provides meals for kids. Every Saturday, we’d volunteer at this community kitchen. I was maybe ten when they first put me on vegetable prep.”
“That’s… not what I expected.” Her head tilts slightly. “But wouldn’t you have learnt how to cook Cuban food?”
“Sure, but I picked up a few other tips and tricks watching Food Network,” I shrug. “I thought you might like Italian food…”
“I do.” Em gives me a smile that lights up every cell in my body. “Next time I’ll cook you something French…”
“Deal.” I flash her a grin as I plate our food as I talk, enjoying how Em watches my hands move. “I was terrible at first. Almost took off a finger trying to chop onions.” I hold up my left index finger, showing her a thin white scar. “But I got better.”
“That’s really sweet.” Em accepts the plate I hand her. “So you and your dad bonded through cooking?”
“Yeah. He was never into hockey, so cooking was our thing.” I gesture for her to sit. “Some Cuban stuff, but a bit of everything, really.”
I take my own seat across from her, pouring us each a glass of wine.
