Ray hasn’t seen me yet.
The kitchen is an absolute disaster. There’s flour across the counter, eggshells scattered like he’s just thrown them around, and something is smoking slightly on the hob.
My eyes fall on him. He’s shirtless with his hair a mess. And he’s completely focused on whatever he’s attempting to make as he sings under his breath, completely off-key.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s . . . oddly endearing.
He turns suddenly, reaching for something behind him and freezes when he spots me. The spatula slips from his hand, clattering against the counter.
“Jesus—” he breathes, startled.
I bite back a smile. “Morning.”
His eyes flick over me quickly before he looks away, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he mutters.
“Clearly,” I say lightly, stepping further into the room and glancing around. “You’ve been . . . busy.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile properly. “I was trying to make breakfast,” he says, like that explains the chaos.
“Tryingbeing the key word,” I reply. “I thought you had people for this?”
He shrugs, suddenly looking vulnerable. “I guess I wanted to be the one to make you breakfast.”
A small silence settles between us as I process his words.
So, I break it. “You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “this reminds me of something.”
He glances at me cautiously. “Yeah?”
“The first time I tried to cook for you,” I say, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes.
His brow furrows then slowly lifts as the memory clicks into place. “Oh god,” he mutters.
“Exactly,” I grin. “Catherine had that brilliant idea that we should ‘bond’ like normal boss and employee.”
He huffs out a quiet breath. “I walked in and the kitchen looked like a crime scene,” he adds.
“Rude.” I laugh. “I was trying my best to make you dinner.”
“I didn’t realise how many pots and pans I owned until that day.”
I shrug, smiling despite myself. “Well, you weren’t exactly impressed.”
“You served me something I couldn’t identify,” he says dryly.
“I followed Catherine’s recipe,” I insist. He gives me a look. “Well, almost,” I correct, laughing again.
The moment lifts something between us, like none of the complicated stuff exists. His eyes linger on me with something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to hold onto the moment.
I push away from the counter, turning towards the mess. “Well,” I say lightly, avoiding his eyes, “at least I know I’m not the worst cook in this apartment anymore.”
His breath hitches out in something close to a laugh. “Low bar,” he mutters.
“Very,” I agree.
RAY
I scrub a hand over my face and look at the state of the kitchen. There’s flour everywhere. A burnt pan in the sink and eggshells on the counter.