Page 28 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
"You can relax. You’re being very considerate."
I’m glad he noticed.
I shrugged, a little embarrassed, and tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear. "I’m trying."
He held my gaze. "I know."
I retreated to my room, needing to cross a few things off the to-do list before the day got away from me. A few work emails. Two quick teleconferences for a continuing-education module for clinicians. One invoice with six line-items I had to track down. The light filtering through the window had shifted, a muted amber. Afternoon was settling in.
Then I opened a browser tab and typed "indoor and outdoor activities for young kids in the city." Rainy day options. Sunny day options. Free events. Ticketed ones. I created a spreadsheet with tabs. Obviously.
Somewhere around listing out travel times for each attraction, I heard a sound from the kitchen.
Pots. Pans. Cabinet doors.
I checked the clock. Five-thirty. Right on cue. I smiled, just a little.
Then came a sharp noise.
A crack that startled me just enough to make me look away from my spreadsheet and look at the door. It came again, lower this time, like something snapping against wood. I headed to the kitchen, pulled by curiosity more than concern.
Liam was at the counter, focused, hand hovering over a cutting board littered with thin white husks. He looked up as I lingered in the doorway.
“Sorry, was that too loud?” he asked, voice apologetic.
I smiled. “Not at all. I was just curious what food group managed to get you so angry.”
He snorted. “Not angry. Just prepping the garlic.”
Prepping. Right. That sounded chef-y enough to make me feel completely out of my depth. I leaned on the counter. “Wait, can I ask? I’ve always wanted to know how to use fresh garlic. Like, properly. What do youdo?”
He turned, one brow raised. “Don’t tell me you use… dried garlic.”
I gasped theatrically. “Never! I use that stuff in the little glass jars.”
He made a wounded sound, clutching his chest. “Tragic.”
I laughed. “I know, I know. Teach me better.”
“Come closer,” he said, beckoning me with a nod. “I’ve got two more to peel. I’ll show you.”
I stepped up beside him, eyes on the cutting board as he picked up a plump clove, still wrapped in its papery skin. “Okay,” he said, settling the clove beneath the wide flat of his chef’s knife.“This part’s fun. You want to crush it just enough to split the skin, not obliterate it. So—heel of your hand here—press firmly, like this.”
He smacked the blade down with a practiced thud. The clove flattened, its skin cracking open like a shell. “Now the skin slips off easily,” he said, peeling it with a flick. “See?”
It looked so satisfying, I half wanted to try it myself. “And then? You chop it?”
“If you want it fine, you can mince it. But for something like a sauté, I usually just give it a rough chop. You want the flavor to bloom, not disappear.”
“I feel like I’ve just entered an elite culinary society,” I said.
Liam smirked. “The only requirement is rejecting the glass jar.”
“I always loved the smell of garlic and onions in a pan,” I said absently.
His voice was quieter. “So you used to cook?”
I waved my hands vaguely toward his setup. “Well, not like this. I mean, come on. You have a cast iron collection and a knife rack.”
