Page 42 of The Kitchen Contract

“Yes, but I don’t even have a table. I either eat standing at the counter or sitting on my couch.”

“So what?” He shrugs. “I do have a table, and I still end up eating in my living room half the time.”

“Yeah, but not when you have company over.”

“Don’t think of me as company.”

I tip my head. “Then how should I think of you?”

“I hope you think of me as a friend who you don’t need to impress.” His expression is earnest, and I feel a blossom of warmth in my chest.

“Maybe I will have you over one day, then.”

“When?”

“What, you want to set a date?”

“Yes. I want to see where you live.” His voice takes on a lower, playfully mysterious tone. “Where does Master Chef Rose Beckham call home?”

I laugh. “Okay, okay. I promise it’s nothing special, but if you really want to see it, how about breakfast tomorrow at 7:00? That’s early enough for you to make it to work on time, right?”

“That works for me. Can I bring anything?”

“Nope. I’ll just throw together something simple. I’d hate to distract you from your chance to snoop around.”

His grin can only be described as victorious. “Sounds great.”

25

ALEX

“Wow, you’re right. This place really is a dump.”

Nora smacks my arm as she closes the door to her apartment behind me. “Really? That’s really how it’s going to be when I welcome you into my inner sanctum?”

I laugh. “I’m kidding. It’s very cozy.” I move a little farther, taking in everything around me. She was telling the truth about the outdated appliances, but the room still feels homey with white cabinets, bright yellow walls, and a collection of framed flower prints hanging in the few open spaces. A set of purple and white coffee mugs hangs from hooks over the sink.

She went back to cooking as soon as she let me in, and her back is to me as she flips something at the tiny two-burner stove.

“It smells great in here. What are you making?”

“French toast. It’s almost ready. There’s coffee on that cart over there if you want some.”

Three steps get me across the whole kitchen to the cart that protrudes into the living room. I pour myself a cup and survey the rest of the apartment. The living room isn’t much bigger than the kitchen, but it doesn’t feel cramped. Directly across from me is a door I assume goes to her bedroom. To my right is a worn leather couch, flanked by two tall floor lamps. To my left, two bookshelves line the wall, with a basket of throw blankets in between them.

“Make yourself at home,” she says. “I’ll bring you a plate in just a minute.”

I wander over to the shelves and tilt my head to read the spines lined up in neat rows, arranged in alphabetical order by author’s last name. It would appear that mysteries and thrillers are her favorite genres, though I do see a fair number of interesting non-fiction titles interspersed.

I lower myself onto the couch and rest my elbows on my knees just as she approaches with two full plates. She sets them on the coffee table in front of me, which is set like a dining room table with forks and napkins.

“I thought you said you were going to throw together something simple.” My mouth waters at the sight of a tall stack of French toast, the slices thick and golden brown. She’s drizzled a generous amount of some kind of purple sauce over them and dusted the whole thing with powdered sugar. It’s almost too pretty to eat.

Almost.

“Nothing simpler than French toast. I hope you like blackberries.” She’s watching me, gauging my reaction with a look of eagerness.

“I certainly do. This looks amazing, Rose.”

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