Page 81 of Eight Years Gone

Sending him a sympathetic smile, Grace wiggled her hips to the beat of the song while she stirred a gloppy mixture in one of the larger pots on the stovetop—a roux, she’d called it. “It’s the only downside to the whole dish.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you have to pay to play, I guess.”

She laughed. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He grinned, getting back to work, loving everything about this moment—loving everything about their Saturday.

When he’d walked out of the dojang at one, Grace had been waiting, leaning against the driver’s side door of his car with a picnic basket in her hands.

Lunch at the park and a quick stop at the grocery store for dinnertime ingredients followed. Now they were home, making a meal while the rain that had threatened all afternoon fell in sheets.

“And just like that,” he said, finally finishing up with the last little hunk.

Grace raised her brow as she nodded. “I’m impressed. Eight minutes or less. That usually takes me forever.”

He flexed his hand again. “That’s a hell of a lot of cheese.”

She nodded again. “Four cups of the cheddar and two of the Gruyere.”

He moved to the sink to wash his hands. “And why didn’t we just get the already shredded stuff?”

She added milk and cream to the gooey mixture. “Because it doesn’t melt as well. And we’re going for perfection. I promised you an epic dinner.”

“With your mad kitchen skills,” he added.

“That’s right.”

Drying off his hands, he walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, bending down to kiss her neck. “I can already tell it’s going to be killer.”

She tipped her head to the side, giving him more room to continue his work. “I’m just waiting for this to thicken up a bit before I add the cheese. Then we’ll pour it over the noodles we cooked.”

He snagged her ear, smiling when she quietly shuddered out her next breath. “Then we eat?”

She shook her head. “It needs to bake for a while. That’s why we preheated the oven.”

He let his palms wander up her gray New York City sweatshirt, stopping to cup her breasts—to tease her nipples with gentle slides of his thumbs. “How long will we have?”

“About thirty minutes.” She made a sound in her throat, then gave him a bump with her butt. “You’re distracting me.”

His mouth went back to her neck. “Sorry.”

She grinned. “No, you’re not.”

He chuckled, stopping his teasing, holding her around her waist again. “This feels good. Being here like this.”

She leaned back into him. “I’d say it’s perfect.”

“Maybe we can do something like this next weekend too.”

She nodded. “I’ve been looking at some recipes for chicken cordon bleu.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding his enthusiasm. “This whole Grace Evans chef thing works for me.”

She laughed. “I’m definitely not a chef.”

“You could have fooled me.” Unable to get enough, he cozied her closer. “Maybe after I’ve watched you in the kitchen a couple more times, I can try cooking something for you.”

“I’d like that.” She kissed his cheek. “Since we’re talking about next weekend, do you have plans Friday night?”

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