Sugar Pie by Victoria Pinder
39
Kerry
Last night, we’d sipped wine, and I passed out. Warren had tried to tell me something, but I’d changed the subject, as I couldn’t hear the word “love.”
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, though. I’d meant to tell him how wonderful and perfect he was and that I wanted to be his girlfriend. I hoped I could handle that much.
I woke up in bed and knew he’d slept beside me. His side was still warm.
He’d even helped me out of my dress to let me sleep.
He came out of the bathroom fully dressed and pointed at the door. “Time to cook.”
“After breakfast.” I patted my stomach and hoped for good coffee.
He laughed. I rushed to clean myself up then changed into simple jeans like he wore, one of the nicer shirts his mother had sent, and the new Valentino flats I’d borrowed from the plane.
He offered his arm. “Fair enough.”
We were shown to seats in the grand room as outside, a light rain brushed against the plated glass windows.
Inside, the fireplace roared, and the other guests were at their small tables, enjoying themselves.
I poured a coffee and ordered Warren a tea.
Without a word to each other, he put his napkin on his lap, and I hoped I hadn’t ruined the best thing I’d ever had: him. I swallowed as fear rocketed through me.
The waitress brought our plates. “These eggs look great,” Warren said.
I swallowed. It was time to enjoy myself and Warren. The weekend seemed like a dream he’d designed for me. I picked up my fork. “Maybe the chef can teach me quickly how to make eggs en cocotte properly, because I’ve never quite gotten it right, though I’m told it’s quite simple.”
An older man in a chef hat who was clearly our teacher brushed my shoulder. “The secret is always the cream. The better the cream, the better the dish.”
Warren winked. The chef laughed. Warren then said, “Sounds easy enough. I’ll buy you the best cream.”
I nodded. “I’ll have to try it later, then.”
He picked up his fork. “I’ll look forward to your test runs.”
We both ate, and somehow my fears washed away as I sipped my coffee.
As our breakfast concluded, the chef waved for us to follow him. Warren put his napkin down then gulped his tea. “Guess it’s time to go.”
I walked beside him and folded my hands in front of me like a schoolgirl. “I’m nervous. No one’s ever judged my cooking, so I’m going to have to listen hard.”
He laughed. “You’ll be fine. No one’s judging, and besides, you’re the rock star in this.”
We walked into a kitchen bigger than the restaurant we’d eaten in and were guided to a portion of the counter marked number four. I whispered, “I’m not a star of anything.”
He laughed. “Don’t lie. You’re the one that slices and dices and somehow makes delicious dinner.”
Tonight, we could eat and maybe we’d enjoy each other in bed. His muscles were dreamy, and I craved touching them. We stayed in our spots as the chef said to me, “If we all had someone appreciating our dinners every night, we all then have a reason to improve. So let’s discuss tonight’s menu, starting with French onion soup.”
“I’m her sous chef.” Warren pointed to me.
I tickled him, and he laughed.
The chef moved to the next couple.
Warren quickly said, “Stop.”
I did. Once we settled down, Warren held a knife and said, “Tell me what to do.”
I showed him how to cut the onions, the easy part. “I wished you talked like that all the time.”
“Honey, I’m all yours.” He winked at me.
I hoped that was true. If he was mine, we could definitely get naked later.
