He shrugs. “Thank you, but there is no way I could cook for more than two people at once. To be honest, I think you might be the only one I have ever cooked for.”

“What do you mean, surely that’s not possible.” My shocked voice makes him stop eating to explain.

“When you have a brother and best friend who were both chefs in their earlier career, there isn’t much need for me to cook. And before they moved back here from Australia, I didn’t really have the need to cook for anyone. Every time I go home, Mum wants to cook, and when I catch up with friends in the finance world, it’s at a restaurant or a bar. Mainly because the meal is more about talking work or trying to schmooze someone to get them as a client. It just wasn’t my style. And when you have money, it’s easier to order food if you are entertaining someone at home…” His voice trails off as he tries to describe when he brings a woman home to his apartment.

“You mean when you bring a woman home to spend the night,” I offer, trying to help him out.

“Something like that.” He takes another forkful of pasta to try to cover up his awkwardness.

“But you cook for yourself, so why don’t you just order food in for that too? Or hire a chef?” I ask the obvious.

“Because I like to cook and…” He looks down again at his plate.

“And what, finish that sentence,” I say, poking him in the arm with my finger.

“And then I know what is in the meal, and I can control what I eat and the quality.” As I look at him, there is the faintest blush on his cheek that I’ve never seen before.

“Why does that embarrass you?” Softly, I put my hand on his arm now.

“It doesn’t, it’s just I’ve never shared that part of my life before. I exist in here, in my world, and don’t have to share that with anyone. It’s probably why I’ve been single for so long. I don’t know that anyone would cope with my OCD and control issues on certain things.” Yet here he is voicing it all to me.

“Then why are you looking for someone to share your life with? Are you searching for anyone who will put up with your pain-in-the-ass personality?” I question him.

“Not just anyone, someone special—annoying, but special,” he mumbles as he pushes his stool back and stands, grabbing his plate as I hadn’t realized he had already finished his pasta.

As I continue eating my dinner, the same thought keeps running around my head until it gets to be too much, and I stop him as he is walking from the kitchen toward his office.