Page 50 of Mistaken Impression

“Can I try?”

“Of course.”

He gets up, coming around the island unit, and I hand him my knife.

“You’re willing to let me use yours?” he says, staring down at me, with that teasing smile on his lips.

“Just this once.”

I step aside, giving him space, and he makes a reasonable job of chopping the herbs.

“How’s that?” he says.

“Pretty good. We’ll make a chef of you yet.”

He chuckles, handing me back my knife, and I put it down again, adding some butter to the pan, and watching while it sizzles and bubbles. I add half the herbs to the beaten eggs, stirring them around, and once the butter has melted, I pour in the egg mixture.

“What do you do now?” Blake asks.

“Wait.”

“You just wait?”

“Only for a few minutes…” He moves closer to get a better view of the pan and I struggle to breathe.

“What are you waiting for?”

“This…” I grab a fork, teasing the omelet from the edges of the pan. “See? The eggs have started to cook.”

He leans in, watching, our heads really close together, while I continue to pull the egg mixture into the middle of the pan until the whole thing is cooked, the top still slightly runny.

Then I tip the pan, folding the omelet into a perfect roll, and slide it onto one of the waiting plates, topping it with a sprig of fresh parsley, before I hand it to him.

“Voilà, monsieur… une omelette aux fines herbes,” I say in my best French accent.

“Merci, mademoiselle.” He surprises me with his response… his accent at least as good as mine.

“Please don’t wait for me. It’ll get cold.”

I hand him a fork, and he takes a bite, closing his eyes as he chews. “God… that’s so good.”

I feel myself blush and, to cover my embarrassment, I mix up some more eggs and herbs, adding them to the pan to make my own omelet. It takes but a few minutes to prepare, and Blake hasn’t eaten more than a couple of mouthfuls of his by the time I’m serving mine.

“Shall we sit at the table?” I suggest and he nods his head, leading the way, but holding out a chair for me when we get there, and waiting until I’ve sat down before he sits beside me. We both eat, and I have to admit, the omelet is good, Blake making ‘hmm’ noises after every mouthful. “Where did you learn to act?” I ask, looking up at him.

“You’re assuming I was taught to do this?”

“You mean, you weren’t?”

“No. Doesn’t it show?”

“No. You were word perfect earlier.”

“Almost,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And learning lines is just about having a good memory. It’s got nothing to do with acting.”

“So you’ve never had any formal training?”

“None whatsoever. I studied English at university and always wanted to be a writer.”

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