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“I can’t wait. I haven’t had a meal in years that I didn’t cook myself.”

I gestured behind him to the dining table. “Go sit down. I’ll bring a plate out to you.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and vanished from sight. I gulped down half my glass of wine in an attempt to calm myself down. How could someone get under my skin so easily?

“Have you made any other friends since you moved here?” I called out, determined to keep the conversation away from my personal life.

“Not really, unless you count the cashiers at the grocery store. Outside of that, last night was the first time I’d really left the house since I got here.”

“When was that?”

“About a month ago, I guess?”

I took everything to the table, setting a plate in front of Ryan before doubling back to grab the wine. Pulling out the chair across from Ryan, I put as much distance between us as possible. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him–I no longer trusted myself. “What’s it like looking after all those kids?”

The Thompsons had five boys all under the age of six, and they were about as rambunctious as you’d imagine.

Ryan thoughtfully sipped from his glass, and I had to forcefully pull my gaze away from the way his lips curled around the rim. “It’s like riding a bike. Only, the bike is on fire, and everything around you is on fire because it’s complete and utter chaos, but I wouldn’t give it up for anything. I love kids.”

Picturing Ryan fighting for his life with those boys brought a smile to my face–and eased the nerves churning my stomach. Finally able to take a bite, I let the food ground me. I let out a sigh of relief. My heart stilled and suddenly, I didn’t feel so scared anymore. The only thing I felt was an overwhelming warmth as the flavors burst over my tongue.

That was what made me fall in love with cooking; the reason I endured the endless name-calling and teasing—mainly from Sawyer. Ryan and I were so focused on the meal that all conversation ceased as we ate. Slowly, the wine disappeared. I was busy pouring each of us another glass when Ryan rose from his seat and took my plate.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, holding a hand up to stop him. “I’ll worry about it later.”

Ryan playfully shoved my wrist and swiped the dishes away. “No, it’s only fair. You cooked; I’ll wash up. I think I can manage it.”

The heat from Ryan’s hand lingered long after he’d disappeared into the kitchen. I stared at the spot, wondering how a simple touch could have me so enraptured.

“Everything tasted even better than it smelled. How’d you learn to cook like that?”

Snapping out of my trance, I drained the rest of my wine and carried the glass to the kitchen, leaning against the sink as Ryan washed up. “I’ve been cooking for myself since I was fifteen. I have Celiac Disease, and I didn’t want to force my parents to eat differently.”

“That’s impressive.” Ryan then paused before asking, “Is that why Sawyer called you Martha Stewart?”

I scoffed. “And Betty Crocker… The names don’t bother me, though. I’ve been called worse.”

“I can relate.” Ryan finished rinsing out my wine glass and set it in the drainboard before grabbing the towel next to him to dry his hands as he turned around to look at me. “But I can imagine that arguing only makes the name-calling worse.”

“People are very… traditional here.”

“What do you mean?”

Ryan followed me into the living room, where we sat on opposite sides of the couch while I told him about growing up in Hazelbrush.

The shop that my dad owned had been passed down through generations. Like his dad, he worked from sun-up to sundown every day to provide for us. Mom was the picture of a housewife. She’d never punched a clock—she didn’t have to. She spent her time at home, raising me, cooking, and cleaning. We were the perfect Southern family—especially once I came along. I was my dad’s pride and joy. I was raised just as he had been: to work. He taught me to bust my ass to get what I wanted. As a kid, I started in peewee football and played all through school and earned football scholarships to three top tier universities in Georgia, Florida, and Alabama. I was the quarterback with the job and the girlfriend that could take him all the way.

I never told my parents, but I secretly applied for a culinary scholarship to New York—and I got it. Needless to say, I kept that to myself. I only wanted to see if I could do it.

“What happened to your mom?” Ryan asked. “You talk about her in past tense.”

“Cancer,” I confessed. “About six years ago now. I gave up everything to stay here and run the business.”

“That’s brave of you. Where’s your dad now?”

“Florida. He couldn’t stand to stay here after mom died. He took his life savings, paid this house off so I could stay, and took the rest to move.”

“You really are the All-American boy, aren’t you?”