kitchen and I preheated the oven. Going to the pantry I started to pull out what I needed, pasta sauce, noodles and spices.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked behind me seated at the island in the middle of our kitchen.
“You can make the salad,” I instructed, setting down the stuff from the pantry I went to the fridge. Pulling out the hamburger and vegetables I placed them on the counter. I handed him a knife from the butcher block. “Can you handle this?”
He lifted his brow. “You haven’t seen anything.”
I went back to the stove, put the hamburger in a pan and set a pot of water to boil. Turning on the burner, I began breaking apart the ground beef and browning it. Looking over my shoulder I checked to see how he was doing chopping the salad.
“You did not just cut up all the vegetables,” I declared mystified by the impossible. There was no way in the time that I turned my back he could have made an entire salad.
“I told you not to doubt me,” he said grinning, so sure of himself.
“What are you a chef? You’re practically failing chemistry, yet you can create a salad in under a minute. What gives?”
“Talent. Do you need help over there?”
“Yeah, boil the noodles smarty pants.”
We worked together in a seamless rhythm. It was like harmony and completely domestic. There was something so homely about having him in the kitchen with me. Maybe it was from growing up without a male figure or maybe it was that he was so familiar with cooking, either way it was nice to not be alone. Cooking for two was not only boring and lonely but lacked the sense of family I missed out on. With the lasagna baking in the oven, we sat at the table, kicked back with the radio on low.
“Where did you move from?” I asked wondering lately where he came from.
“We lived just outside of Chicago, till my dad got the job offer in Jacksonville.”
I was surprised. I didn’t know how many job opportunities there were for a historian. Let alone exactly what a historian did.
“What was it like there?”
“Busy. Windy. Cold.” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. Those were all things I already knew about Chicago. “Do you miss your old friends?” I asked, secretly wondering if he also had an ex-girlfriend there as well.
He slouched back in his seat and smiled. His whole face relaxed “Yes, sometimes I do. Chicago was where I was born. It was really hard to leave. My friends understood me in ways people here won’t be able to.” His smile drooped and he looked a little lost in the past.
My heart went out to him, I couldn’t even think about leaving Holly Ridge. Starting over somewhere foreign, making new friends, for the socially awkward like me that sounded disastrous. But there was no denying how glad I was that he was here with me instead of in Chicago were we would have never met.
The buzzer sounded on the oven pulling us each from our own thoughts. Dinner was done. Getting up I dished out our plates and brought them to the table. It was so strange having a guy over for dinner – just the two of us. If I wasn’t careful this was something that I could get use to and want more of – time alone with him.
“What makes the people so different here?” I had to ask. And did that include me?
He shrugged, forking a heap of lasagna into his mouth. “Culture I guess, except you. I felt a connection with you the first day we meet. I remember thinking, finally someone who will get me .”
I bit into my garlic bread and thought about the first time I saw him. Maybe I judged him to harshly that day for skipping out on class. I never really thought about what he was going through being the new kid. Or what he had to leave behind. My heart beat a little faster at his admission of the connection we both felt.
“Is that why you ditched on your first day?” I blew off on a bite of steaming lasagna before putting into my mouth.
“Partly,” he admitted. “Mostly I was pissed at my parents, but running
“What do you want me to do?” he asked behind me seated at the island in the middle of our kitchen.
“You can make the salad,” I instructed, setting down the stuff from the pantry I went to the fridge. Pulling out the hamburger and vegetables I placed them on the counter. I handed him a knife from the butcher block. “Can you handle this?”
He lifted his brow. “You haven’t seen anything.”
I went back to the stove, put the hamburger in a pan and set a pot of water to boil. Turning on the burner, I began breaking apart the ground beef and browning it. Looking over my shoulder I checked to see how he was doing chopping the salad.
“You did not just cut up all the vegetables,” I declared mystified by the impossible. There was no way in the time that I turned my back he could have made an entire salad.
“I told you not to doubt me,” he said grinning, so sure of himself.
“What are you a chef? You’re practically failing chemistry, yet you can create a salad in under a minute. What gives?”
“Talent. Do you need help over there?”
“Yeah, boil the noodles smarty pants.”
We worked together in a seamless rhythm. It was like harmony and completely domestic. There was something so homely about having him in the kitchen with me. Maybe it was from growing up without a male figure or maybe it was that he was so familiar with cooking, either way it was nice to not be alone. Cooking for two was not only boring and lonely but lacked the sense of family I missed out on. With the lasagna baking in the oven, we sat at the table, kicked back with the radio on low.
“Where did you move from?” I asked wondering lately where he came from.
“We lived just outside of Chicago, till my dad got the job offer in Jacksonville.”
I was surprised. I didn’t know how many job opportunities there were for a historian. Let alone exactly what a historian did.
“What was it like there?”
“Busy. Windy. Cold.” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. Those were all things I already knew about Chicago. “Do you miss your old friends?” I asked, secretly wondering if he also had an ex-girlfriend there as well.
He slouched back in his seat and smiled. His whole face relaxed “Yes, sometimes I do. Chicago was where I was born. It was really hard to leave. My friends understood me in ways people here won’t be able to.” His smile drooped and he looked a little lost in the past.
My heart went out to him, I couldn’t even think about leaving Holly Ridge. Starting over somewhere foreign, making new friends, for the socially awkward like me that sounded disastrous. But there was no denying how glad I was that he was here with me instead of in Chicago were we would have never met.
The buzzer sounded on the oven pulling us each from our own thoughts. Dinner was done. Getting up I dished out our plates and brought them to the table. It was so strange having a guy over for dinner – just the two of us. If I wasn’t careful this was something that I could get use to and want more of – time alone with him.
“What makes the people so different here?” I had to ask. And did that include me?
He shrugged, forking a heap of lasagna into his mouth. “Culture I guess, except you. I felt a connection with you the first day we meet. I remember thinking, finally someone who will get me .”
I bit into my garlic bread and thought about the first time I saw him. Maybe I judged him to harshly that day for skipping out on class. I never really thought about what he was going through being the new kid. Or what he had to leave behind. My heart beat a little faster at his admission of the connection we both felt.
“Is that why you ditched on your first day?” I blew off on a bite of steaming lasagna before putting into my mouth.
“Partly,” he admitted. “Mostly I was pissed at my parents, but running
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