“More steak?” I said, and he laughed.
“You got it.” He grabbed a bag of slivered almonds from a nearby cabinet, then moved back to the fridge for some green beans. I watched as he moved quietly and quickly, never consulting a cookbook.
“You actually cook,” I said, recognizing his total comfort in the kitchen with a start. Was there anything this man couldn’t do?
He nodded. “I do. When my mom was sick, my dad did the cooking and he was god-awful. I figured someone had to figure out how to make edible food or we would all waste away even if she beat the cancer.”
I smiled. The story was a familiar one—it was the same thing I’d done when my father had passed away. Of course, I’d been only twelve back then, but with my father gone, my mother hardly ever remembered to eat, let alone to feed me.
I’d never gotten good enough to make anything fancy without a recipe, but I knew my way around a gas range, which was still more than I could ever say for my mom.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his deep voice breaking through my thoughts.
“Nothing. Well, I was thinking I should help you. And that it must have been hard, watching your mom so sick like that.” No point in mentioning that I could empathize from experience. I still didn’t know how close I really wanted to get with Mason. I barely knew him, even if our DNA were friends.
“We all have our trials,” he said, deftly moving the indigents around before he reached for another pan. “And you stay exactly where you are. I don’t want you lifting a finger.”
“I could get used to that,” I said with a chuckle.
But you better not get used to it, Bren Matthews. Because if you do, you’ll find yourself flying straight out of the frying pan and into the fire.
He smiled back at me, then focused in on his work again, heating the pans and sautéing the almonds while I imagined myself falling so far and so deep I wouldn’t know where I ended and he began. No. Not gonna happen. “You know, you’d think that it would have been a huge toll on them, what happened with my mom, but my parents really made the best of it. Every day we did something together as a family. I mean, I know now that was because we didn’t know how many days my mom might have left, but then?” He shrugged a shoulder, then moved back to the fridge for a forgotten ingredient. “It was just, I don’t know, good. To see my parents together and happy together in spite of everything. It makes you feel like anything is possible, seeing two people like that.”
“I know what you mean.” I’d said the words without thinking—or rather, without realizing what I’d done. I didn’t want to open the door to my past. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Of course, he would have to meet my mother eventually, and when he did, the whole sordid affair would come out—how happy my life had been when my parents had been together. And how completely and totally inconsolable she had been since my dad’s passing.
My throat tightened, and I cleared it as I watched him move around the kitchen. Mason went right back to preparing dinner and didn’t seem to notice all the words that remained unsaid.
He tossed two cloves of garlic and a bundle of thyme into the heating pan, and a savory, mouthwatering aroma filled the air.
“Anyway,” he said. “I feel like I talk all the time about myself and I don’t know enough about you.”
I blinked. “Well, what do you want to know?”
“Anything, anything at all. Like, why do you go by your middle name?”
“My middle name is Brennan, but I prefer Bren,” I said.
“That’s cool.” He nodded. “Why did your parents name you Ashley?”
I rolled my eyes. “The stupidest reason you can imagine.”
“You have to remember I’ve seen a lot of people name babies stupid things for stupid reasons. Ashley hardly seems far out there.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, my mom and dad met at an old-timey sort of movie theater and it was playing Gone With the Wind that night. So, you know, my mom named me Ashley because she fell in love with that character.”
“That’s not stupid. That’s actually very sweet.” The steak sizzled in the pan behind him and he turned around to tend the meat. “Ashley was a middle name, too. It could have been worse, because they could have used his first name and called you George.”
I snorted and leaned back in my chair. “I like Bren a lot better. It’s a family name. My grandma was Bren, too.”
He nodded. “Family connections are important. But it’s nice to have a love story in your name. Like a little reminder.”
All the more reason to go by Bren, I thought. Every sorrowful lilt of my mother’s voice was reminder enough of my parent’s tragedy of a love story—I didn’t need to add my name to the list.
“Are your parents still together?” he asked.
A knife dug between my ribs, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wondering how best to answer him. I wasn’t about to lie to him—but I didn’t need to say all of it either. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“No,” I said simply.
He nodded, and silence fell between us for a long moment before he slid a plate—steamy and hot—in front of me. On it was a massive serving of porterhouse and green beans amandine.
“Wow, this looks incredible,” I said, then waited as he slid a knife and fork toward me and then joined me at the island to eat.
“Your steak is smaller than mine,” I said. “Let’s swap.”
“You said you like your steak with more steak, and you might be eating for two.”
“And if I’m not?” I said.
“Then you still get more steak. Seems like a win-win to me.” He cut into his steak, then said, “Shit, I forgot to ask—are you okay with medium?”
“Perfect,” I said, then started in on my food. With every bite, I was more amazed with his prowess in the kitchen, and I was on the point of telling him as much when he started to speak again.
“Your job is amazing,” he said. “Watching what you do.” He shook his head. “I’m impressed.”
“Well, I don’t save lives or anything.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he countered. “Animals need to be cared for just as much as humans.”
My heart melted a little, and I swallowed hard, trying not to get sucked in to the whirling, twirling human vortex of perfection that was Mason Bentley.
“Anyway, what else do you want to know about me?” I asked.
“What was your favorite toy when you were a kid?”
“What?” I laughed.
“I’m serious. You can tell a lot about a person based on their favorite childhood toy.”
“Even if it was just a doll?” I raised my eyebrows, then took another bite of my green beans.
“What kind of doll?”
“A veterinarian doll set I got for my seventh birthday.” It had been a special gift from my father. He’d run all through all the surrounding cities trying to find one just for me. That was just the kind of guy he’d been.
“What was her name?”
I blushed. “Oh God.”
“Come on,” he coaxed.
“Valerie Veterinarian.”
“You still have her?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “Lost her in a move. But what about you? Favorite childhood toy?”