Page 28 of Forever Fake

“I think so. I’m pretty sure I’ve watched every cooking show that’s ever been made.” My exuberance dies down a little when I think of my old home life. “But my parents’ kitchen was always off-limits to us unless we wanted to cook with Mom. She only showed us how to make traditional Italian dishes, nothing fun or experimental. So I haven’t really had the chance to try.”

“Well, now you live here and this kitchen is always available to you.” She spreads her arms, gesturing to the wide, open space. “And I’ll help you create anything you want. I know you’ve been eating a lot of takeout for dinner, but… I could cook you any of those dishes.”

My face heats as I realize that I’ve probably been offending her by eating food from restaurants every night instead of whatever she cooks for Blake. But until today, I’ve thought of her ashiscook, not mine. I didn’t want to be a burden.

“I didn’t mean to be rude—” I start.

“It’s no problem.” She leans her forearms on the counter. “I’m sure you know this but, Mr. Baron eats the same boneless, skinless chicken and vegetables every night for dinner. I’m sorry, but I’m so bored,” she whispers.

A grin splits my face. “Then, let’s fix that. How do you feel about a turducken, or beef Wellington? Oh, I know! Sausage stuffed croissants.”

Kyla laughs and pushes off from the counter. “I’m game for all of those. Which one do you want to make for dinner tomorrow?”

“Beef Wellington? But only if you eat with me. Otherwise I’ll feel guilty and just weird.”

“Deal. I’ll pull together the ingredients and let that beef chill overnight.”

I grab another cookie, stoked about diving into a complicated and time-consuming recipe tomorrow. From what I’ve seen on cooking shows, it’ll take a good chunk of the day.

“Why are we making beef Wellington?” drawls a familiar, deep voice from the doorway.

Kyla offers him a professional smile. “Ms. Pontrelli requested it, sir.”

“Did she?” he says, leaning against the door frame. “Why?”

I square my shoulders and face him. “Because it will be fun.”

“Fun?” He scowls. “Food’s not supposed to be fun.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what you need?” Taking one of our creations from the cooling rack, I saunter up to him and slap it to his chest. “A cookie.”

He catches it, probably afraid it’s going to stain his perfectly starched white shirt. Seriously, how does this man look so pristine this late in the afternoon? It’s like he’s stepped out of a fashion magazine page, not just arrived home from the office.

I plant a kiss on his cheek—because we’re keeping up appearances—then stroll out of the kitchen.

With an irritated growl, Blake follows me to the living room. “You can cook whatever you want, just clean up after yourself,” he demands. “This place is a mess.”

“Hardly,” I mutter. This morning, I cleaned up the takeout containers and loaded the silverware and cups into the dishwasher. The living room looks tidy enough to me.

Blake picks up a lap blanket from the couch. “These need to be folded, and the pillows all have places. They’re not to be thrown about wherever.”

Seriously? This guy has issues.

“They are calledthrowpillows for a reason.”

He blankly stares at me.

“Fine, okay…” I sigh.

“We need to address the situation in the bedroom and bathroom as well.” He continues folding blankets and arranging pillows. It’s so… domestic. It’s an interesting, unexpected look on him.

“Whatsituation?” I prompt.

He glowers. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The explosion of your stuff all over the place.”

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