Page 42 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I pull the golden loaf from the oven, setting it on a cutting board to cool. “But yes, I made the bread, and the pasta…”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a horn, then leans against the counter, watching me work. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My dad, actually.” I stir the chicken one last time before turning off the heat. “He works for a non-profit that provides meals for kids. Every Saturday, we’d volunteer at this community kitchen. I was maybe ten when they first put me on vegetable prep.”
“That’s… not what I expected.” Her head tilts slightly. “But wouldn’t you have learnt how to cook Cuban food?”
“Sure, but I picked up a few other tips and tricks watching Food Network,” I shrug. “I thought you might like Italian food…”
“I do.” Em gives me a smile that lights up every cell in my body. “Next time I’ll cook you something French…”
“Deal.” I flash her a grin as I plate our food as I talk, enjoying how Em watches my hands move. “I was terrible at first. Almost took off a finger trying to chop onions.” I hold up my left index finger, showing her a thin white scar. “But I got better.”
“That’s really sweet.” Em accepts the plate I hand her. “So you and your dad bonded through cooking?”
“Yeah. He was never into hockey, so cooking was our thing.” I gesture for her to sit. “Some Cuban stuff, but a bit of everything, really.”
I take my own seat across from her, pouring us each a glass of wine.
“The funny thing is, most of the time I just cook for the hockey team these days,” I continue. “Try it before it gets cold.”
Em tries it and makes a sound that’s borderline obscene. “Oh my God, Linc. Your dad is officially my hero.”
“Glad you like it.”
She takes another bite, closing her eyes again. “My grandmother was the one who taught me to cook.”
“Yeah?” I’m not just making conversation—I genuinely want to know more about her.
She nods, swallowing before she speaks. “Mom loves cooking, but she’s always working. It was Grandma Penelope making meals. She’d love you, by the way.”
“Because I appreciate good food?”
“That, and she has a thing for hockey players.” Em smirks. “But you’ll need to discover a love for reality TV if we’re to stay together.”
The casual way she’s discussing a future with me makes my heart leap, and I laugh, nearly choking on my wine. “Your grandmother sounds like a character.”
“You have no idea. She’s like eighty percent of my personality, but with more swearing in French.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I find myself staring at her, still not quite believing she’s here, in my apartment, on a date with me. It’s something that feels so good in the marrow of my bones, and I can’t believe I almost didn’t let myself have this.
“So what about your mom?” Em asks, breaking my reverie. “You mentioned she’s into your hockey?”
“That’s… an understatement.” I try to keep my tone light. “Mom’s my biggest fan. She’s great—always believes in me—but sometimes she’s…”
“Too much?” Em supplies gently.
I look up, surprised by her perceptiveness. “Yeah,” I say, then pause. “Sorry, that sounds whiny.”
“It doesn’t.” She reaches across the table to touch my hand. “It sounds human. Like you’re trying to figure out where her dreams end and yours begin.”
“I guess I am.” I turn my hand over to lace our fingers together. “Why are you so wise, Amélie Dubois?”
“Well, they say dark chocolate and avocados make you smarter, and my body is 80% those two foods, so…” She grins. “You’ve got time to figure it out, Linc…”
“I only have one semester left,” I remind her.
“That’s plenty of time.” Her thumb traces patterns on my palm. “And hey, I’m figuring stuff out too. Like having sex with boys.”
My breath hitches. “Just boys in general? Or one specific boy?”
Her eyes meet mine, a mischievous glint in them. “I’m thinking of narrowing it down to one…”
“Good choice.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I hear hockey players have excellent stamina.”
“So I’ve heard. But I might need empirical evidence.”
By now, we’re almost done with the food, and we’re definitely done with the food. So I stand up, still holding her hand, and move around the table until I’m right beside her chair. Bending down, I kiss her properly this time, slow and deep, about as romantic as I can make it.
“How’s that for evidence?” I murmur against her lips.
“Inconclusive.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “I need a larger sample size.”
I kiss her again, harder, my hand sliding into her hair. Her mouth opens beneath mine, and I trace her lower lip with my tongue. She tastes like the meal and the wine we just shared, yet somehow both taste a whole lot better like this. And, when we pull apart, we’re both breathing heavily.
“I made dessert,” I tell her, our faces inches apart. “Flan. It’s my abuela’s recipe and I think?—”
“Or…” She cuts me off and stands, pressing herself against me. “We could skip dessert.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Are you sure? We don’t have to rush anything…”
“Linc.” She places her hands on either side of my face, looking me straight in the eyes. “I appreciate you being considerate, but I’m ready.”
Those two words send a surge of heat through my entire body. I’ve been careful not to push and to let her set the pace. Even after the party, when we admitted our feelings for each other, I knew we still had to take things slow. But now she’s firing the starter’s gun, I can barely contain myself.
“We can reheat the leftovers later…” I laugh. “And eat the flan for breakfast.”
She bites her lip again. “Take me to your room, Linc.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I take her hand, leaving the dishes and the candles and the carefully planned dinner behind. All that matters now is her—this brilliant, funny, gorgeous girl who somehow wants me just as much as I want her.
As we walk down the hallway, I feel a curious mix of excitement and nervousness. This isn’t my first time, not by a long shot, but it feels like it. Because with Em, everything feels different. Everything feels new and important and wonderful.
I pause outside my bedroom door, turning to face her one more time. “You’re sure about this?”
Her answer is to pull me down for another kiss, her body soft and warm against mine. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispers.