Page 31 of House of Desire

“Well, I tried to make fried chicken, but I don’t know if the oil was too hot or what. It shouldn’t be black.” She rubs at her forehead and I feel a little sorry for her.

“It looks great, Zoey. Thank you for making this for me,” Parker says with a gentle smile and a touch of her hand. His tenderness melts my insides and I try not to turn into a pile of goo on the floor.

Parker’s face shows nothing but enjoyment as he eats the overcooked chicken, soupy mashed potatoes, and soggy roasted broccoli. For each item, he finds something to compliment, and I melt even more at his treatment of my friend.

The chicken was moist.

The potatoes were well seasoned.

The broccoli had good flavor.

Despite knowing her food was lackluster, Zoey beams at him as he thanked her again for her effort.

The TV turns back on and Jacob calls for contestant number two, Carmen. She strides across the floor, not a hair out of place despite all the activity for the last hour.

“Darling, I made you my favorite things since I’ve moved to this country. A steak with honey sriracha Brussels sprouts.”

Her accent grates on my nerves as he tells her Brussels sprouts are his favorite vegetable now. Apparently, he hated them as a child with the passion of a thousand suns. Which seems completely reasonable to me.

As he compliments her on how amazing her food is, I wonder if I should have subverted expectations and done a dessert instead of a meal.

Desserts for me are a love language.

But, despite them being my living, they aren’t all I am. And that’s what I was trying to show with this dinner. Maya presents her dish as I continue to berate myself for not sticking to my strengths, but when my number is called, I let it go, unable to change the choice I made.

I walk over, and stare down at the simple bowl, letting my hair fall in my face.

“This is my mom’s famous one skillet tortellini dish. She makes it in the fall when all you want is comfort food,” I tell him, but keep my eyes down on the bowl I place it in front of him.

I can’t look at him when I share this meal with him. What if he doesn’t like it as much as my family does? Or what if it’s not fancy enough? I should have baked for him.

His large hand reaches out, but instead of grasping the bowl, his fingers barely grip my chin, raising it, forcing me to look at him.

He lets go, tucking one side of my hair behind my ear, his fingertips gently brushing my neck as he pulls back.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he whispers so no one can overhear us. But we are wearing microphones so no matter how private of a moment we might be having, I know it’s being recorded.

“Parker, you need to speak up,” a member of production instructs, but he ignores them.

“Sorry,” I say, a little embarrassed.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bake for me,” he says louder, trying to lighten the mood.

“I considered it, but I figure if you want to taste my baking, you’ll have to keep me here until the hometown dates.”

“Will you teach me to bake something if I do?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He nods and then grabs the fork, stabbing a few of the tortellini as well as a slice of sausage. Plopping the bite in his mouth, he hums as he chews and my face heats in pleasure.

“This is amazing. It reminds me so much of something my mom would make. The slight spice is really nice,” he says, taking another bite.

He’s only taken one bite of the other girl’s dishes so far, so I can feel myself preening under the compliment.

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