Page 34 of Noel
Curiosity wins over common sense, and I follow.
The kitchen is surprisingly warm and lived-in.Big farmhouse sink, wide butcher-block counters, and an old-fashioned fridge covered in magnets—half of them look like they came from hardware stores or national parks.
He opens it and grabs a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a jar of strawberry jam.
“That’s dinner?”I ask, a little laugh escaping me.
He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You were expecting a three course meal?”
“I was expecting, I don’t know—soup?Maybe a salad?Something that doesn’t belong in a lunchbox.”
“This is a salad,” he says, completely serious as he sets the items down.“Bread group, protein, fruit.Balanced meal.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling.
“You’re such a guy.”
He grabs a butter knife, spreading peanut butter thickly across one slice.
“You want crunchy or smooth?”
“Smooth,” I say immediately.“I have trust issues with crunchy.You never know when one of those peanut chunks is going to break a tooth.”
That earns me an actual laugh—quiet, rough, but real.
It does strange, fizzy things to my stomach.
He hands me the jam.
“Your turn, Tinsel.”
“I’m never living that nickname down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” he says, and something about the easy banter makes the tension between us stretch and soften all at once.
We work side by side, and it’s oddly domestic.
Two pieces of bread, a smear of jam, a smear of peanut butter, a little bump of shoulders when we both reach for the same knife.It shouldn’t feel intimate—but it does.
He grabs two tall glasses and heads for the fridge again.
“Milk?”
“Sure,” I say automatically, then blink when he sets down a carton that says Organic, Grass-Fed.
“Organic milk, huh?”I tease, arching a brow.“Didn’t take you for the wheatgrass and granola type.”
He snorts.
“It lasts longer and doesn’t taste like chemicals.Plus, my mom used to say the cows deserved better.”
I grin.“She sounds like she was a saint.”
“She was a force of nature,” he admits, pouring the milk.“You’d have liked her.”
We clink glasses—because apparently, even peanut butter sandwiches deserve a toast—and take a drink.
