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I crack a couple of eggs into a bowl, rooting around in the cabinets for a whisk. When I glance back at Sophie, her brow is furrowed. I worry idly for a moment, wondering if I said something to offend her.
“You mean you don’t care?” she asks.
I shrug. “It’s not that important to me, you know?”
“I don’t get it,” she says. “You work so hard, you pull all of those late nights in the office—and you don’t even care about the things that money can buy?”
She doesn’t sound like she’s accusing me of anything, just confused—incredulous. I can’t say I blame her. I’ve known plenty of people who wondered what kept me motivated. I’m a hard worker; I’m not exactly an absentee parent to Dynasty. It’s easy to stoke people’s curiosities when I confess that I’m not really in it for the wealth.
Seasoning the eggs with some salt and fresh oregano, I start to tell her, “It’s not about the money. It’s about proving something to my father. I have to—”
I stop talking. Quickly. My hand fumbles with the whisk. I can’t believe I brought up my father in front of someone else. I can’t remember the last time that happened.
It was just… thoughtless. The words started to spill out of me, and I simply let them.
I can feel her eyes on me as I finish whisking the eggs. I avoid her gaze, setting a cast-iron skillet on the wide stove and coating it in cooking spray.
She definitely noticed; she’s too sharp to miss it. But I can’t tell her about that shit with my father. Not yet.
“You seem like an expert at that stove,” she says finally, mercifully changing the subject. There’s a teasing note in her voice. “Are you good at cooking like you’re good at everything else?”
I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound too forced. “Well—”
“I guess I’ll see for myself,” she says. “What are you making me?”
“Omelet.”
“What kind?”
I gesture to a bowl of fresh ingredients on the counter—tomatoes, a bundle of spinach, capers. “Whatever you want. I’ve got salmon in the fridge, and a few different cheeses.”
“I don’t need anything fancy,” she says, looking startled.
“Spitfire, it’s all fancy from here on out,” I remind her. “Come on. Don’t you want to try something?”
She still looks hesitant, and I get it. It’s that instinct in all of us, the one that tells us not to impose. But she couldn’t impose on me if she tried.
“You want me to decide for you?” I offer. “I’ll make it a surprise.”
The tension breaks on her face, and she grins. “Sounds good, chef.”
I pour the whisked eggs into the skillet, then reach into the fridge for some feta. It’s a Mediterranean kind of morning.
As I add the cheese and some spinach to the eggs, I ask her, “So what about you? You cook?”
“I had to learn pretty quickly after I moved out of my parents’ house,” she says. “But I peaked pretty early. Figured out all the basics, never got good at the fancy stuff.”
“The fancy stuff?” Gently, I coax the omelet onto its side. “What do you mean, ‘the fancy stuff’?”
“You know—any techniques that have a French name.”
I hum thoughtfully, almost to myself. “You’re good at plenty of techniques that have a French name.”
She scoffs at me, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “I meant cooking.”
“I’ll teach you,” I say, flipping the omelet. It lands perfectly on its opposite side. While it sizzles there, I reach up to the cabinets to find a plate.
“That might be hard,” Sophie says dubiously. She points over at the stove. “For one thing, I’ve never been able to do that properly.”
