Page 196 of Tell Me Something True

He frowned, too, but at the salad in his hand, as if it had somehow betrayed him. “You don’t want it? I can make something else.”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It looks amazing. I was just expecting something simpler. Like scrambled eggs and toast. But this…” She stopped, her eyes welling, the tip of her nose stinging. She cleared her throat, but when she spoke, her voice was thick. “This is so much better.”

“It’s just a salad I threw together from your leftovers and a vinaigrette I made with stuff in your cupboards. No big deal.”

He’d made a dressing, too?

And it was not just a salad. It was the time he’d put into making the salad, which, okay, had only been a few minutes. More than that, it was that he’d put in effort. For her.

That he’d been so thoughtful.

For her.

Forget her ovaries.

It was her heart she should’ve been worried about.

Smiling at him, she accepted the paper towel wrapped fork he pulled from his back pocket. “It’s a great salad. I just hadn’t realized you could cook.” When they’d been together before, she’d baked occasionally, but neither of them had been much for cooking. “Or that the thing you’d decide to make would be so full of vegetables.”

The man’s tastes ran more toward meat and potatoes.

Preferably deep fried.

“I eat vegetables,” he said as he sat beside her, and she noted that his bowl did, indeed, hold salad as well.

Except his was only lettuce, and instead of salmon, he’d added leftover chicken and hunks of cheddar cheese.

And a copious amount of ranch dressing.

She smiled. She liked that in some ways, he hadn’t changed.

Almost as much as she liked discovering all the ways he had.

“And I don’t consider this cooking,” he added, stabbing a piece of ranch drenched chicken, “but, yeah, I can cook. I just don’t do it very often.”

While he dug into his food, she took a small bite of her own salad.

“This dressing is amazing,” she said around her next mouthful. Chewed, swallowed, then immediately shoveled another bite in.

Having four orgasms in a row really worked up one’s appetite.

He shrugged, as if he was not some magical magician who’d turned bagged lettuce, leftovers, and mystery ingredients into the tasty feast before her. “It’s just olive oil, lemon juice, mustard, and honey. But you can make it with other oils or vinegar, add herbs and seasonings. The most important thing is to get the proportions right.”

Grinning, she stabbed a piece of mushroom. “Guess having a brother who’s a chef isn’t so bad after all.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “The first night he met you, he tried to send you home with not one, but two of the bottles of wine you brought.”

“He was very polite about it. And to be fair, he did drink an entire glass of that Chardonnay I brought.”

“He winced the entire time,” Miles pointed out. “I had to kick him. Twice.”

“You kicked him three times.” And he hadn’t been subtle about any of them.

“That third one was just for fun.”

She laughed. “I’m sure he was right to want those bottles gone. I told you I don’t know anything about wine.”

“You didn’t have any to drink. That night. Actually, I’ve never seen you drink,” he continued casually, as if just stating a fun fact about her, one that wasn’t actually very fun at all.

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