She adds a garnish of some crispy herbs and uses a rag to wipe the edges of the plates where the béarnaise sauce went astray.
I lean down to catch her eyes and break through her serious concentration. “Is it perfect yet?”
Her eyes narrow. “Presentation is key to pulling in all of your senses when you eat.”
My brows lift. “I must have missed that in the Rise and Shine brand philosophy.”
“It’s not a me thing. It’s a food thing.” She straightens and removes the apron from around her waist. I take the opportunity to drift over her hourglass figure before looking at the presentation she’s slid in front of me.
“You smelled the food when you walked in, right?” she asks, pinning me with a look.
“Yes.”
“And you heard the sizzling of the sauce on the stove?”
“Yes.”
She grabs a spoon and dips it into the gravy boat. “You’ve seen my presentation, which means there’s only one thing left.” She offers the spoon to me, and I open my mouth and taste the deliciousness of that sauce.
My eyes close, and I let out a deep groan. “That tastes incredible.”
“Because I’ve engaged your senses.” I open my eyes to find she’s watching me. “Now dig in before it gets cold. Cold food is not a sense I want you to experience.”
I can’t hide my grin as she joins me with her plate, and I pass her a glass of wine. I attempt to make small talk as we eat, but it’s nearly impossible when you’re tasting the best steak of your life. By the end, I’m debating whether to lick my damn plate. It’s that good.
“You can bake and cook. It’s too bad you never want to get married because you really would make someone an excellent wife.”
She rolls her eyes. “Every woman’s dream come true, right? To cook for her man. What more could she want out of life?”
A sheepish look masks my features. “Alright, I get it. You hate men.”
“I do not hate men,” she corrects, looking affronted. “I just hate the expectation that since my career is a traditionally feminine activity, it must mean I want to be a wife and mother. There’s a lot more to life than that.”
“Like?” I prod, my curiosity piqued over all things Norah.
She turns to face me, her blue eyes alight with determination. “For me, it’s obviously my business. It takes up a lot of my time, and I love it, so why would I let a relationship distract me?”
“Completely agree.”
“And if my dream to live in another country comes to fruition someday, having kids will make that exceedingly more complicated.”
“I hear you there,” I reply with a cringe. “Lynsey’s life with Julianna is practically unrecognizable to what her life was before. But surprisingly, she’s still managed to open a practice with her husband.”
Norah nods thoughtfully. “Some women can do it all. And maybe with the right partner, it could work, but good luck finding that. I’ve had a few boyfriends, and none of them could get over the baker’s hours.”
“Baker’s hours?”
“When I first opened the bakery, my croinut batches took three days to make. It was brutal. I was up at two every morning to get them going so they’d be ready for the morning crowds. Try being intimate when your alarm clock goes off at one a.m. I was in bed by six for most of my twenties.”
I inwardly cringe because her waking time is about the time that I’m getting ready to score. And her bedtime is when I’m usually working out and getting primed for the night. Her twenties sounded miserable.
“When did you ever let loose and have fun, Norah?”
She expels a bitter laugh. “Baking is fun. And it got hella more fun when I perfected the twenty-minute croinut and got to sleep normal hours again.”
I level her with a look because while yes, her “take a number, twenty-minute dough to dish” routine is a huge part of what makes her franchise so marketable, her “fun” she’s talking about is still all about work. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious. Baking is fun. And cooking is fun.” She stands and grabs both of our plates, but I rest my hand on top of hers to stop her in her tracks.
“You cooked. I clean.”
She shakes her head stiffly. “I’m particular about my dishes.”
My brow furrows. Jesus, this girl is worse off than I thought. I rise to my feet, towering over her meager five-foot-five frame and grab onto her shoulders. “Sit.”
I gently press her back into her seat and grab our plates off the counter. I set about rinsing the dishes, which don’t consist of much. The girl cooks clean. Every dish she used except her saucepan and whisk is already loaded into the dishwasher.
She winces when I bend over to load the plates. “Just…make sure they’re all facing to the left. When you face them toward each other, the water doesn’t get up between them.”
“Norah…do you do drugs?”
Her eyes widen. “No.”
“You should start,” I reply and load the dishes, ignoring her tiny murmurs of displeasure. I start the dishwasher so she can’t go back and redo what I’ve done. “Now, let’s go over these rules of yours before you have a nervous breakdown over the fact that I barely rinsed the plates before I loaded them.”
She rolls her eyes and slips off her stool to grab a yellow legal pad and a Sharpie out of a drawer next to her fridge. I use the opportunity to pour us both more wine. We’re going to need this.
“Okay, rule number one. No public displays of affection.” She writes down in perfect, kindergarten-teacher print NO PDA. “My mom will be watching me like a hawk, and if you’re touching me a lot, it’ll be obvious that this is totally fake.”
“Okay…what about hand-holding?” I ask, tilting my head curiously at her. “You think your family is going to buy that I’m your date if I can’t hold your hand?”
Rubbing her lips together, she nods. “I see what you’re saying. Okay, maybe hand-holding, but just the friendly kind. Not the waffling kind. That’s way too intimate.”
“I’m going to need a demonstration.”
She grumbles under her breath, clearly annoyed.
I love it.
She reaches down and cups my hand on my lap, flattening her palm to my palm and folding her fingers around the outside of mine. Her fingers are chilly and a stark contrast to my constant heat.
“Like this.”
I nod and stare down at her pale hand in mine. “And what is…waffling?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face.
“This.” She lifts my hand between us and interlaces her fingers with mine. Instantly, a warmth creeps through my body as her face flushes with color. Her eyes move from our hands to my eyes, and I see her swallow as she stares at my lips. “We can’t do this. This will be too much,” she croaks, her voice thick in her throat.
I nod, my eyes dropping to her lips, wondering what they taste like. “If you say so.”
She inhales deeply and holds her breath in her shoulders for a moment before shaking her head and abruptly dropping my hand. With trembling fingers, she clutches the marker and writes FRIENDSHIP HOLD on the list.