He slid the eggs from the pan, yellow as sunshine, soft as a cloud. The kitchen smelled like toast, like coming downstairs to breakfast on the first day of school with a new book bag full of sharpened pencils and the air rich with coffee and promise.

I slipped my phone from my pocket.

“What are you doing?” Eric asked.

I tapped the screen. Perfect. “Taking a picture.”

He gave me a look of controlled patience.

“What?”

“Jo. Every night we work to get dishes to the tables on time. Everything on the plate à point, the right texture, the proper temperature. And then some idiot pulls out his phone to take a picture and the food gets cold while they frame their fucking shot to impress their friends.”

I grinned. “You sound like my mother.” Except my mother never dropped the f-bomb in her life.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Eat, before your eggs get cold,” I explained.

His smile broke. When he smiled like that, with his whole face, I felt warm all over.

Encouraged, I continued. “Anyway, isn’t that why you became a chef? To impress people with your cooking?”

“To impress you. I cooked for you. The point of making food is to feed people, yeah? The ones you care about.”

My cheeks got hot. Meaning . . . He cared about me? Well, me, and everybody who ever ate in his restaurant. Let’s not get carried away here.

We sat down to eat at my alcove desk table. I stuck a fork into the eggs. They melted on my tongue, the promise of butter, a whisper of salt, the taste of home.

“Oh,” I said, a soft note of discovery.

Another smile. He looked pleased. Like my opinion mattered. “Wait until I cook you dinner.”

“You cook dinner all the time.” It was the highlight of the day, when he cooked for the staff. Most of us couldn’t afford to eat his food otherwise. I ran bread over my plate, wiping up the last smear of silky goodness. Wait. “You mean, like, here? Tonight?”

“I thought we would go to my place.” He watched me carefully. “Unless you would rather go out.”

As if spending the day together, the night together, was a foregone conclusion. I swallowed. With Trey, I’d learned to always be on my guard, holding tight to my definition of who I was and what I wanted, constantly braced against the moment he would lunge ahead, dragging me with him.

But Eric . . .

“You’re doing it again,” I said. Giving me choices. Options. “I don’t always need to be in control, you know. What you want matters, too.”

“I know what I want.” His gaze met mine, making my insides shimmy. “I don’t know how you feel.”

“I jumped you at the door. I’m pretty sure that was a clue.”

A glint of a smile. “And I’m grateful.”

“Amy—my sister Amy?—says men don’t like aggressive women.”

“You are passionate.”

I flushed. “Blunt.”