“It’s wonderful. A cook’s dream. My aunt Sophie would camp out in here. We’d never see her. You must love it.” She moved into the room and ran her hand along the island counter separating the breakfast nook from the rest of the kitchen.
“It’s what sold me on this place. Do you cook?” he asked.
“Enough to get by. Evidently not like you, though, if that wonderful smell is any indication. Do you cook often or did I just catch you on a good night?”
“I like puttering around in the kitchen. I can whip up a decent meal.” When his father died and his mother hadn’t been able to cope, Jack had learned to manage the household. Cooking was just part of it. It had been a matter of survival.
“You don’t have to convince me. My mouth’s watering. What is that?”
“Meat loaf. There’s plenty. You’d be more than welcome to join me.”
“Oh…” Pink suffused her cheeks. “I wasn’t fishing for an invitation. I wouldn’t dream of intruding. It just smells so good and I don’t know of many men, at least single men, who cook—not that I’d really know, but—”
“Erin, would you please have dinner with me? If I had been thinking clearly, I would have asked you earlier when we scheduled for tonight. I have some mashed potatoes and a salad, too. It’s not much. The meat loaf won’t be ready for another half hour, but I would love for you to join me.”
“Do you cook like this every night? I mean, a full meal for yourself?”
“Not really every night. I eat the leftovers for a day or two afterward. Sometimes I’ll make a big batch of something, then freeze whatever is left. Once I lived off a batch of chili for three weeks.” And often, still, he took food to his mother’s, but that was going to end.
“You didn’t get tired of it?”
He let his gaze again drift over her. From head to toe, there wasn’t anything about her that he could find fault with. “When I find something I like, I don’t mind sticking with it.”
She looked away and he could have hit himself. There he went again—open mouth, spill guts. Why was it that way with her?
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