Page 58 of Goalie Secrets

“I believe I have logged quite a few good deeds today, Jeremy,” I say with a barely restrained smile and one raised brow.

His eyes travel to my lips for a second before he continues the persuasion. “Can I just look at thatonepicture? Think of it as a gift to a friend who cooks for you.”

“I thought youwantedto cook for me.”

He blinks rapidly, like I hurt him. “Of course I do.” His voice is mired in regret. Regret slackens his grip.

I grab the album which he releases easily.

“I’m gonna put this away and you can decide if we should order in or defrost the sweet potato and bean casserole,” I announce from the hallway leading to my bedroom where this private album will be safely tucked away for my eyes only.

He makes a grumbling noise while heading to my kitchen. When I return, he’s poking his head in the fridge.

“Not much to work with here,” he says.

Jeremy opens a few cupboards till he finds the one that serves as a pantry. Holding up a sad box of penne, a can of diced tomatoes, and a dusty glass container of olives, Jeremy looks victorious.

“Those olives were there when I moved in,” I say, leaning against the counter and enjoying the view of Jeremy shoving his sleeves up to reveal sinewy forearms.

“Have a little faith. Magic’s about to happen here, Vanya.”

I bite back a laugh. “Magic pasta with old olives?”

He puts a hand over his heart. “They’re vintage, thank you very much.”

I cross my arms, curiously watching him rub his hands together like he’s preparing a five-course meal instead of some pantry improvisation. First, he gets water boiling for the pasta. Then, he finds a small onion that somehow escaped my grocery neglect, giving it a quick chop and throwing it into a pan with the last bit of olive oil I have left.

The onion starts to sizzle, filling the kitchen with a savory aroma. Jeremy glances over at me, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I’m putting you to work as my sous chef.”

“At your service. But if it isn’t a salad or microwavable, you risk ruining a decent meal,” I warn, stepping closer.

“Let’s live on the edge,” he teases. Jeremy hands me a wooden spoon. “Stir the onions, please. Try not to burn it. I’m entrusting you with this critical task.”

I laugh, nudging him with my elbow when I take his place. I give the pot a stir. He moves behind me with slow intent, looking over my shoulder. I turn my head to find him staring at me with a sultry grin.

“Look at that form,” he says, although he’s looking at my lips and not at the pot.

I’m overwhelmed with the impulse to kiss him. But instead, I clear my throat and continue to stir.

“So, chef, what’s our next move?”

He opens the can of tomatoes and dramatically tosses them into the pan. They splatter a bit, but he dodges the splash with a wink.

“Now, we add… a mystery ingredient.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is the mystery ingredient vintage olives?”

He gives me a look of exaggerated offense, then pulls out the olives, delicately sprinkling some on the pan. “You’re ruining the magic here, Vanya. It’s all about imagination.”

I can’t stop smiling, watching him cook as if he’s on some high stakes cooking show. He sprinkles salt and pepper with flair. After scrounging deeper in the cupboard, he’s rewarded with a container of dried herbs. Jeremy adds them liberally while I stir the concoction.

“Alright, taste test,” he announces. Jeremy grabs a teaspoon and scoops up some sauce. He holds it out for me. I lean in to wrap my lips around the utensil. Jeremy stares at me intently. His Adam’s apple, at my eye level, bobs erratically.

I make a sound of appreciation, because the sauce is surprisingly good.

“I’m impressed. Not bad at all.”