Page 50 of Bean

I frowned as I studied the indeterminable yellowish blob in the skillet. What the everloving flying fish was that? “What are you making?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.

“An omelet. Come sit, it’s almost done.”

An omelet? That was not an omelet. What it was exactly, I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t even remotely come close to what an omelet was supposed to look like.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Maybe I should taste it first. Heaven knew I’d produced some meals that had been anything but appetizing in terms of looks but had been perfectly edible.

“It doesn’t look like it did in the picture,” Jarek said hesitantly as he poured the egg-mix onto our plates. And I meant pouring because the middle was still completely raw.

“You used a recipe?”

“I Googled it. I didn’t have all the ingredients, but I figured a few less wouldn’t make a difference.”

That explained at least part of it, but I was more concerned with the preparation time. “How long did it say to cook it for?”

He looked sheepish. “No clue. I didn’t get that far.” He turned his attention back to the blob. “Do you think it needed longer?”

Gosh, he was adorable. “I’m pretty sure it needed at least another ten minutes for the center to get done.”

“Should I put it back in the pan?”

I took a careful bite off one of the sides, which was a little soft but almost done. Almost immediately, I started coughing. Sheesh, how much salt had he put in there, half the shaker?

“Is something wrong?” Jarek asked.

In lieu of an answer, I held out a bit to him. He took it, then spit it right back out onto his plate. “That’s…”

“Not good,” I offered.

“I was more thinking along the lines of inedible and disgusting, but yes, not good covers it.” He sighed as he stared at the mess on our plates. “I figured an omelet would be easy to make.”

“You’ve never made one?”

“I usually eat cereal in the morning. As you can tell, cooking is not my strong suit. I’m sorry.”

He looked crushed, and somehow, that made me go all weak and soft inside. For the first time, he was the one who needed help, who didn’t have it all together. He’d never so much as hinted that he found my countless hangups and quirks annoying, not to mention my brain injury, but it still made me feel better that he wasn’t perfect either. “I can teach you.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I’d like to.”

His expression softened. “You would?”

I nodded. “You’re teaching me…sex, so it’s only fair that I teach you a skill in return.”

He chuckled as he held up both hands, palms up. “Teaching blowjobs…” He brought one hand down. “Versus teaching cooking.” Now, he moved his other hand, but not as low. “I’d say I’m getting the better end of the deal here.”

I laughed along with him. “That’s okay. I owe you for… Well, for everything.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, sunshine. You don’t owe me a damn thing. Everything was freely given, no strings attached. Being with you is”—something passed over his face, but it was too quick for me to interpret—“special. You’re special.”

If he kept saying things like that, I was gonna embarrass myself by getting all teary-eyes or something, but those butterflies inside me had to release somehow. “You’re special too. I like… I love being friends with you. With benefits.”

“Right back atcha, gorgeous. But do you really think you can teach an old fart like me a new trick?”

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re not an old fart, okay? You’re…you’re perfect. And just so you know, I taught myself how to cook after my brain injury because I needed somethingelse to focus on. If I can learn it with a brain firing on a quarter of its power, it shouldn’t be an issue for you.”

He held up his hands. “Say no more. I’ll be your willing student.”

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