He has his back to me, mostly. I can see only a sliver of hisprofile, but it’s enough that I catch the corner of his grin, the deep dimple it sets in his cheek. “The men in my family age really well—what can I say?”
“Alex.”
“Thirty-five,” he says. “Thirty-six in November.”
“Uh-huh. A Sagittarius.”
He glances over his shoulder. “How’d do you figure that? Aren’t most November birthdays Scorpios?”
“Yes, but you are one hundred percent a fire sign.”
He laughs, then gingerly glances at me over his shoulder. “You?”
“Textbook Libra.”
“Noted,” he says, “but I meant your age.”
“Oh. Thirty-three. Thirty-four in October.”
He grins. “Spring chicken.”
“Tell that to my ovaries. Because they’re telling me, I’m a ticking clock.”
“Nah,” he says gently. “You’ve got time, Ted. You’ll get your babies.”
My heart pinches. “You really think so?”
“Know so.” He turns off the burner, then carefully scoops out four poached eggs. “Until then, I’ve got a feisty four-year-old you can havewheneveryou want.”
I laugh. “Mia is a blast.”
“She’s a goddamn handful,” he says affectionately. “Also a fire sign.”
“Aries.” I’m confident of this.
He smiles. “Textbook Aries.”
As I see him start to plate the food, I jump up, rummaging around his kitchen for silverware, napkins, place mats.
When I take my first bite, a whimper sneaks out of me, then a deeply appreciative, “Holy shit.”
Alex’s mouth tugs up at the corner. “I hope that’s a good ‘holy shit.’?”
“It’s a euphoric ‘holy shit.’?” I dive into another bite, sweeping a piece of crisp toast through sun-gold yolk and glossy burnt-umber sauce. “What is it?” I ask.
“Oeufs pochés en meurette,” he says, “á la Chef Diane.”
“Chef Diane?”
“My mentor,” he says. “She hated how the original recipe made the eggs turn purple; it calls for poaching the eggs in burgundy wine. So instead, she taught me to poach the eggs in water, then make a sauce with the wine, said it made everything about the dish better. And she was right—it’s better like this, in every way.”
“Well, I have nothing to compare it to, since this is my first time having… what was it again?”
Alex smiles. “Oeufs pochés en meurette.”
Desire hums in my veins. I did forget what it was called, but I asked him to repeat the dish’s name mostly because Alex speaking French is hot as hell.
“Yes,” I manage hoarsely. “That. It’s phenomenal. So please thank Chef Diane for me.”