Page 77 of Resisting the Grump

“Oh wow. I didn’t realize it was out already.”

“It’s not, but I got an advanced copy.” He nodded towards a neat row of hardback cookbooks near the toaster. I made my way over and slid it from the stack, smiling when I saw how much he looked like his dad. Just… fuller bodied. They had the same dark eyes, though. The same thick head of hair. I was about to open the book when a photo on the fridge caught my eye.

“Is this your parents on prom night?” I asked.

“Homecoming,” he said. “You’re looking at the king and queen of Roosevelt High.”

“They’re adorable.”

“My mom’s adorable. My dad’s just incredibly lucky.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him.

“That’s what he’d tell you, anyway.”

I looked back at the candid picture, wondering if it was the moment before they posed for the camera or if they’d been having too much fun to do so. Either way, his mom was beaming at his dad so brightly I got a lump in my throat.

“We’re having the dish on page eighty-four, if you’re curious to check it out.”

“I am,” I said, returning to the table with the heavy book. As soon as I opened it, the nerd in me started drooling over the fancy fonts, and the food photography was insane. Coupled with the smells coming from the kitchen, my stomach couldn’t help but growl. “Please tell me whoever took these pictures got to taste the food.”

“Probably on more than one occasion. My dad’s an incurable perfectionist. Wouldn’t surprise me if he placed every piece of crushed peppercorn by hand.”

Simba’s orange face eyed me from a few feet closer than before. I’d heard of a watchdog, but never a watchcat. What was he playing at? “Does Simba eat lobster?” I asked, flipping ahead to page eighty-four.

Oliver laughed as he pulled the mashed potatoes he’d been warming from the oven. “Did you hear that, Simba?”

His pointy ears perked towards the kitchen.

“Avery wants to know if you like lobster.” Oliver threw his smiling eyes toward the sky.

Simba disappeared around the counter, and Oliver glanced in his direction before bending down to slip him something. A satisfied smile teased Oliver’s face, but it was nothing compared to Simba’s smug expression when he came around the corner licking his lips. They were truly a ridiculous pair.

“I can’t believe you’re a cat guy.”

“I can’t believe you asked if my formerly feral street cat likes lobster.”

I laughed. “He’s licking his paws right now like the high life is all he’s ever known.”

“Take notes,” he said, his eyes finding mine.

I blushed and dropped my eyes towards the recipe. Now was no time to get ahead of myself. It was easy to promise a woman more. The question was whether he could promise me no more messes.

But a second later, I realized that was extremely unlikely because I nearly drooled on myself reading the divine description of the lemon butter sauce. Better yet, he’d be serving the tail without the shell, so breaking a sweat wouldn’t be necessary. “I’m relieved to discover you’re serving it this way. I was kind of worried you might make me work for my dinner.”

“You already have,” Oliver said, stirring and serving two portions of steaming mashed potatoes. “By breaking into the puzzle box and overlooking my poor judgment because I’m your dream guy.” He stole a glance at me.

“Seems statistically unlikely that anyone’s dream guy would move in next door,” I said, squinting at him as he artfully arranged the lobster he’d prepared before sprinkling a few sprigs of fresh parsley.

“I know,” he said, carrying two plates over. “How does it feel to be one of the lucky ones?” He set my plate down, and then his dark eyes met mine.

I swallowed. What if I was one of the lucky ones? What if I let myself believe that?

He removed the cookbook from the table and grabbed my wine glass.

“Thanks,” I said, dropping my eyes to my plate when he turned around. “This looks incredible.”

“I hope you’re as pleased with how it turned out as I am,” he said, topping up our wine glasses.

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