What's for Breakfast?

Fifteen: You're Here Now

Going along with my choice to change the subject, he answers, "A dish I learned while I was in Italy. Zuppa Toscana and Chicken Marsala."

I peek at the stove. "Make sure that's edible."

I glimpse at him again, nibbling my bottom lip. Derek in an apron is a sight I certainly don't mind. I keep my hands to myself, though.

He chortles. "Of course. Go ahead and change your clothes. I'm almost done."

Somehow, I acquire a gut feeling that there is a real reason behind this invitation. We'll see.

I come out of the room wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of black shorts.

"Come on, sit," he says merrily.

I sit on the bar stool, marveling at the sight of the food I've never tried before. The presentation is impressive. He places some on my plate and looks at me giddily.

"Go ahead, give it a try."

He watches me as I take my spoon to have a bite.

The taste is absolutely divine. While I'm no connoisseur, Derek's cooking consistently wins over my taste buds. There seems to be no dish he can't master.

"How is it?"

"It's delicious," I admit, taking another bite. "You should open a restaurant."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Mm," I hum, chewing.

"I'll consider it." Then he claps. "See? I'm good-looking, rich, and I'm an excellent cook."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Uh, okay. So?"

"Nothing. It's just that... If you find yourself starting to like me, I totally understand."

I cough, choking on a slice of chicken. I guzzle my drink hastily. What's he saying? Did I get found out?

I let out a burst of nervous laughter. "Very funny, Derek."

He smirks. "I'm kidding. Enjoy."

My toes curl inside my slippers, uncertain why he always insists on making this particular joke. "Why are you fond of making that joke?"

"I like the idea of it."

"Of what?"

"Of you falling for me."

I bat my eyelashes. "What?"

"Because you hate me the most."

Exhaling slowly, I lock eyes with him, sincerity lacing my words. "I don't hate you, Derek."

His gaze drops to the table. "Not yet."

"Huh?"

"So, what do you think? It's good, right? I asked a local chef to teach me the recipe," he mutters.

"Why did you pick such a bad time to cook these dishes?" I hiss. I can't eat too much or I might vomit later. This sucks.

"Sorry. I was bored the entire day, so I went out to get some groceries."

After a few minutes, I'm left feeling full but unsatisfied. I crave more, yet Derek purposely ensured we would have a light dinner. As part of our usual give-and-take routine, I take charge of washing the dishes while Derek observes, almost as if we're returning to our normal dynamic. I allow myself to revel in the pleasantness of the moment.

"Rest for an hour, okay?"

With my laziness intruding on my thoughts, I plead, "Can we not go?"

He sticks his tongue out at me, and I wonder how it will feel to have that tongue on mine.