Page 61 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

Cade takes a sip of his wine before answering. "My mom, mostly. After my parents split, she worked a lot, so it was either learn to cook or live on frozen pizza. And I couldn't have that."

"And Sandy? I mean Sanderson," I ask, correcting myself because I don't know him as Sandy. I just know that's what Cade calls him.

"Sandy can barely make toast without setting off the smoke alarm." He grins, a genuine fondness softening his expression. "One time he tried to surprise Mom with breakfast on her birthday. I woke up to him panicking with a flaming pan of bacon and eggs cemented to the bottom."

The image makes me laugh. "What did you do?"

"Helped him clean up and cooked them correctly for her. He still owes me for that one." He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

I chuckle at the thought. "So, what's your specialty? Besides pasta that's actually edible."

"Well, for one, I make a mean breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, the works." He leans forward slightly. "Maybe you'll find out someday."

The idea of staying the night and waking up to him cooking me breakfast sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Is that an invitation, Connolly?"

"More like a preview of coming attractions." His smile is both mischievous and genuine. "What about you? What's your specialty?"

"Thai curry," I say without hesitation. "Not the watered-down American version. The real deal that makes your eyes water and your soul leave your body." I squint my eyes at him, taking a sip of my wine.

He laughs. "Sounds terrifying. I'm in."

"Careful what you wish for. I've made grown men cry."

His smile widens. God, he's handsome. "I like a challenge." He holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, the double meaning hanging between us.

I take another bite to break the intensity, but the connection remains, an invisible thread pulling us toward each other across the small table.

"Okay, serious question," he says, refilling our wine glasses. "Is cereal soup?"

I nearly choke on my pasta. "What? No. Absolutely not."

"Think about it," he insists, eyes lighting up with the absurdity of the debate. "Cold liquid with solid pieces floating in it. That's soup."

"That's… No, Cade," I shake my head emphatically. "Soup is cooked. Cereal is…cereal."

"Gazpacho is cold. Still soup." He's grinning now, clearly enjoying my outrage. "And what about cereal with warm milk?"

"That's disgusting, first of all. And still not soup."

"What's your definition of soup then, smarty pants?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed.

I consider this for a moment. "Soup needs to have a broth or base that's more complex than milk. Flavored with herbs or spices or vegetables."

"So, if I add cinnamon to my milk…"

"Still not soup!" I throw my head back and laugh. "This is the hill you want to die on? I will fight you all day."

"I'm just saying, if we're going by culinary taxonomy—"

"Oh my god, culinary taxonomy?" I dissolve into laughter. "Who even are you?"

"Cade Connolly." He winks, taking another sip of wine. "Someone who appreciates proper soup categorization."

There's that cocky arrogant prick I used to hate. He's right here, but it's odd how time changes everything. I understand him now, and I definitely don't hate what I see.

"You're very annoying," I laugh.

"Yet here you are, having dinner with me anyway." His expression softens. "Lucky me."

---