He lowered his glass to stare at her—his Laurel, with her hair clipped up as always when she worked, her quick, competent hands busy. “You’re kidding.”

“I know you’re partial to crème brûlée.” She lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug as the kitchen filled with scent. “If I’m going to cook, I might as well cook what you like.”

It occurred to him he should have brought her flowers or wine or ... something. And realized it hadn’t occurred to him because he was so used to coming here, coming home, to seeing her in his home.

Next time he wouldn’t forget.

When the wine came to a boil, she lowered the heat, covered it. Then tested the pasta, deemed it done, drained it.

She got a dish of olives out of the fridge. “To hold you off,” she said, then turned her attention to the salad.

“You know what I said about being in charge when you’re in the kitchen?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Something about being in charge makes you just stunning.” She looked up, blinked in such obvious surprise he regretted not thinking of flowers even more.

“You’re already getting crème brûlée,” she managed.

“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” Had he never told her that before, in just that way? “Cooking just spotlights it, the way dancing spotlights a dancer, or a sport spotlights an athlete. It just never struck me until now, I think because I’ve gotten used to seeing you at some stage or other of baking. It’s a kind of taking for granted. I need to be careful not to do that with you.”

“We don’t have to be careful with each other.”

“I think we do. Even more because we’re so used to each other.”

Maybe taking care was more accurate, he thought. Wasn’t she doing just that now? Taking care by making him a meal she knew he’d like particularly, and doing it because she knew he’d had a difficult day? This newness between them wasn’t just about dating or sex. Or it shouldn’t be.

He didn’t know, couldn’t know, where they were going, but he could start paying more attention to how they got there.

“Do you want me to set the table?” he asked her.

“It’s done.” The fact that she was a little flustered, and it showed, delighted him. “In the dining room. I thought, since—”

“That’s nice. Parker?”

“Is doing what any good friend does and making herself scarce tonight.”

“Very nice.”

She walked over, checked her skillet, then added more butter, some scallops before briskly zesting a lemon into the mix.

“That smells amazing.”

“Not bad.” She added some fresh herbs, salt, pepper, stirred. “Couple minutes to cook through, then we’ll let it sit for a few more. Fairly easy-peasy.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”