Whew. “Thanks.” I don’t bother to argue. It’s his stupid idea to spend a fortune on food we have to cook ourselves. We could’ve spent less at the Chinese takeaway.
“Can we order just steamed rice from the Chinese place?” he asks me as he grabs the bags of groceries.
“Yes. I’m sure we can.”
We stop by and it takes two seconds to order and pay for plain rice. I don’t know why we don’t buy the rest of our meal while we’re there.
“Do you have a wok?” Keats asks as he takes the stairs to my apartment two at a time. I would’ve appreciated his athleticism more if I was only watching his cute butt, but with me trailing behind, I just wish he’d take a chill pill and stop hurrying. “Sorry, I forgot to ask.”
“Um,” I really have to think about this one. “Yes! Yes, I do. Bels got it for me as a housewarming gift.”
I let us back into my apartment and head straight for my cupboards. Near the back, I spot the long handle of an extra deep-looking, rounded frying pan.
“This is a wok, right?”
“Yes.”
I give it a quick rinse and hand it to him.
“Apron?” he asks for next.
God, he’s prissy. I walk over to a neglected drawer by the sink and dig under the folded tea towels. I spot a plain black apron, but then something else catches my eye. I pull that out instead and hand it to him.
Keats raises a brow at the white apron with the red gingham frills all around—very 1950s, especially with the little embroidered words on the top left chest area: Domestic Goddess. It was an ironic Christmas gift from Isabella. Keats puts it on without a word, tying the strings around his body. With his trim frame, he’s able to fasten the knot in front.
With business-like economy of motion, he turns one wrist over and unbuttons his cuffs to roll up his sleeve. When this is done, he does the same to the other sleeve, looking so deliciously male despite the apron he’s wearing.
“This is actually Aunty Lorenda’s recipe—Isabella’s mom,” he explains unnecessarily. “She used to get Byron, Isabella and me to do the chopping up—her ‘kitchen hands’, she called us. How are you at slicing and dicing?”
“I should be able to do it without killing myself.” I sound cocky, but really, I’m not sure.
“All right, you can peel the carrots, and top and end the round beans—that means take the ends off like this.” He shakes his head at my confused expression, but his smile seems amused. “I hope you know more about Isabella than you do cooking.”
“Yes, I do.” That’s why he’s here. He wants to ask me all about his ex-girlfriend like I’m some kind of expert. Of course I led him to believe that. Anyway, comparatively, I am an expert, I suppose. “What do you want to know?”
He hands me a carrot and a peeler that he finds in my cutlery drawer (it must have been my ex-roommate’s), and asks, “Did she really like me, or has it always been my brother?”
I hesitate. I’m sure there’s a friends’ rule book somewhere that has this very thing in bold under the “Thou shalt not” chapter. Thou shalt not tell your friend’s ex-boyfriend her feelings about him. Of course that’s right under, “Thou shall not help your friend’s ex-boyfriend break up your friend’s engagement”.
But it’s not like he has a chance of getting back with her. And he said he’d go through his stupid plan even without my help…
Oh stuff it. Isabella is deliriously happy and engaged to be married. I’m single and finally getting attention from the first guy I’ve ever had a crush on.
“No, she liked you,” I say in a rush before my guilt at betraying Isabella can shut me up. “She really did. She was uncomfortable about her feelings for Byron because he’s younger. I mean, you know about the nickname she got in high school, right?”
“‘The Cradle Snatcher’?”
“Yes. That bothered her.”
“Even after she got back from London?” He’s like a professional chef with that knife. It looks like he’s only half paying attention but the blade is slicing away very quickly and deftly. I’m more worried about his fingers than he is.
“Yep. Byron offered to take her to the reunion for free, but she wanted you.”
His eyes turn inwards for a beat and he smiles his broad grin. I almost peel the tip off my finger. I inspect the damage. Luckily, the peeler’s too blunt to break my skin.
“Are you okay? Maybe you should just sit there while I finish this off. There isn’t much more to cut.” Keats indicates the pile of vegetables. He’s obviously lying to be polite.
“Just hand me the damn mushrooms. How do you want these?” I ask.
“Without blood, preferably.”
“Don’t tease me when I’m holding a peeler.”
“Ooh.” He chuckles, but puts the paper bag of mushrooms in front of me. “Just cut them length-wise about four millimetres thick. And you know to use a knife, not a peeler, right?”
I throw a mushroom at him. He catches it in one hand, expression smug. Placing the mushroom on the chopping board in front of me, Keats watches me chop the whole thing before he trusts me enough with the rest.
“This reminds me of Home Ec. Did we ever partner up for that?” he asks, chopping up broccoli.
He so doesn’t remember me. I remember that one and only time we had to work together in Home Economics like it was yesterday. It was Year 9. Fiona was away, and his friend Richard Dean had been sent home for the day for squirting water on Mia in Science class. I never played much pretend growing up, pretending to be “the mummy” while a friend played “the daddy”, but I secretly did that day.
“Maybe once,” I say now.
His eyes narrow like he’s peering into the past. He shakes his head, obviously unable to recall what I’m talking about.
“So, if I was the one Isabella
