Page 6 of From LA to London, With Love

“It’s a deal! And for you, my first client, I will generously provide this service for free.” I felt the need to pinch myself. Was this actually happening? Having a ridiculous conversation about magic portals with a smoking hot guy inside my dream home was not how I expected my Monday to turn out.

“Too kind.” He flashed me another one of his smiles, his eyes twinkling, and then swung open the door to the kitchen.

I picked Elliot up and followed him.

“First stop on the tour, the kitchen.”

Chris led us into the large kitchen, which immediately filled me with envy. It had recently been renovated and had two stainless steel fridges, two ovens, an industrial steel range hood, a walk-in pantry, and a huge kitchen island. My parents’ modest kitchen paled in comparison.

“Wow! This is amazing. It also smells incredible. What are you cooking?” Something was in the smaller oven, filling the room with a rich, savory aroma.

“It is great, isn’t it? The kitchen actually inspired me to cook again. I’d got very lazy back home. I’m trying a stuffed eggplant recipe. It’ll probably be disastrous because I’m very out of practice, but at least I enjoyed making it.”

“If it tastes even half as good as it smells, it’ll be delicious.” God, the smell was making my stomach rumble. I regretted not eating any of the cakes on offer at Cynthia’s before I stormed out. I should have grabbed some to go. “And you’ll be surprised how quickly it'll come back to you—at least it did for me. I moved back in with my parents just before this little guy made an appearance and rediscovered my love of cooking.”

I immediately regretted mentioning my parents. I didn’t usually open up to strangers like this. When I finally got pregnant, they’d encouraged me to move back home so they could help with Elliot. Living with my parents in my mid-thirties wasn’t exactly part of my life plan, and while it made sense for now, I still felt slightly embarrassed.

I wondered if Chris had someone to cook for. I hadn’t seen any signs of anyone else living in the house yet. There were definitely no parents hovering around.

I kept speaking, keen to move the conversation away from my living situation. “Although, having said that, cooking under the influence of a baby is dangerous. I’m having way more mishaps as a result of sleep deprivation—burning pots, forgetting to turn the oven on, putting salt instead of sugar into a cake. I don’t know who came up with the phrase “sleep like a baby,” but it wasn’t someone who knew anything about babies. Thank god for Uber Eats as a trusty back-up option.”

Chris chuckled. “Uber Eats is great, but definitely only as a backup option. Not as a three-times-a-day option, which is the hole I fell down before I moved here.” He looked at his stomach, which looked flat as a washboard to me, pinched a bit of flesh through his top, and shook his head.

Unsure what to say in response to this Adonis’s apparent body image issues, I poked my head into the huge larder.

“Now, let me just check your larder for centaurs.”

The larder was massive but disappointingly empty. The man needed to go shopping, that’s for sure. What was the point of having a larder the size of a walk-in wardrobe if you didn’t fill it to the brim with all the staples and other goodies?

“Lah-dah,” Chris said thoughtfully, perfectly copying my pronunciation.

I’d forgotten Americans called it a pantry, but the way he’d repeated the word was odd, like he was tasting it, focusing on the sensation in his mouth as it rolled off his tongue.

Was he making fun of me? He didn’t look like he was joking, though. His expression was serious. A hint of pink touched his cheeks as he caught me staring at him.

I considered asking him what he did for a living but decided against it. He’d almost certainly be an investment banker or something else boring and corporate-y to afford these digs, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear about it. Even thinking about his potential job reminded me of the mothers’ group. Some of the mums, and almost all of their husbands, worked in the financial sector.

I realized that I’d been staring at him for more than a beat too long. Worried I’d made him feel uncomfortable, I started babbling about the first thing that came into my head.

“You know, the smell and these ingredients you have out reminds me of an Ottolenghi aubergine recipe I used to love. I gave up making it because I instituted a fifteen ingredients max rule, and this one went way over.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I realized he probably didn’t know who Ottolenghi was. God, Sophie, you need to work on your small talk game. “Sorry, Ottolenghi is a well-known chef in London, famous for his complicated but delicious recipes. I’m not sure his fame’s spread to the States.”

He laughed again, looking at me with surprise. “It is actually an Ottolenghi recipe. You must have an amazing sense of smell. Have you ever considered a career as a perfumer?”

Wow, that was…I was impressed with myself too. “Magic portal inspector, perfumer…have you ever considered a career as a career advisor? Or maybe a chef—that recipe is hard.”

Chris grinned, and I couldn’t help grinning back. He really did have an amazing smile.

“I have been thinking about a career change lately…” He looked thoughtful. “I’ll need to see how this dish turns out before I make my final decision. I have a sneaking suspicion I overextended myself. Two pages of ingredients should have raised alarm bells. But I powered ahead anyway because I’ve got plenty of free time at the moment, and I find cooking relaxing. All the rhythmic chopping and grating, it's like a mindfulness exercise. So, even if it doesn’t turn out, at least I enjoyed the process, right? And, as you know, there’s always Uber Eats.”

Into cooking and mindfulness? Has plenty of time on his hands? This guy wasn't what I was expecting. I didn’t know any investment bankers who shared these interests. They were more into cocaine or expensive cars. I was having to rethink my first impressions…Maybe he was a trust fund baby? Or the American heir to a fracking or pharmaceutical fortune, or something similarly unfortunate.

We compared notes on our favorite Ottolenghi recipes as Chris showed me around the rest of the floor. The back of the house was open plan, with the kitchen, another living area, and the dining room all in one big space. Behind the living area and dining room, there were large French doors which opened to a deck and then a small green garden. It had been renovated to meet modern tastes, but thankfully, they’d kept many of the heritage features.

I sighed. It was perfect.

He stopped at the staircase, gesturing down the stairs. “The basement is hazardous at the moment—I’m in the middle of turning it into a gym, and I can guarantee you, there's nothing magical down there, just half-unpacked boxes—but I’ll show you guys the upstairs rooms.”

That sounded suspicious. Was it really just an unfinished gym, or something else he didn’t want us to see? My imagination started to go into overdrive. A meth lab, hydroponics for growing weed, or even fully furnished sex dungeon. Really, Sophie?