Page 21 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

“He likes to cook?” she asks.

“He did. He was a chef.” My dad is wearing chef whites in all the memories I have of him. Not because he wore them all the time but because his work was so important to him.

“Wow,” she says. “Really? And he taught you how to cook?”

“Yeah. It was his passion. Loved it more than anything. He was never happier than when he was in the kitchen, and then when he was watching people eat his food. It was everything to him.”

“He’s not around anymore?” she asks.

I shake my head and focus on combining the cream, eggs, cheese, and lemon in a bowl.

“I’m sorry. Did he die recently?”

I pull in a breath. I don’t ever want to have this conversation. It’s probably one of the reasons I never talk about it. That time of my life was the most difficult, and I hate reliving it. “Back when I was a kid.”

“Yeah,” Avril says. “My dad died when I was four. Worth brought me and Poppy up.”

It’s not what I’m expecting her to say. I’m pretty good at reading people, and Avril…I don’t know what I assumed, but I didn’t expect to have this in common with her.

“What about your mum?” I ask.

She winces. “She never really got over it. Worth is ten years older than me, so I don’t remember life being any different to how it was, growing up. He was in charge. He would make sure we had our lunches, our trip money. He told us when to wash our hair and clean up our rooms. He was mom and dad rolled into one. Sometimes I look back and wonder how the hell he did it and survived.”

“It must have been a lot for all of you.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s a lot, but I got off lightly, you know? I was the baby. Everyone always made sure I was okay. But no one looked after Worth. He did it all.” She pauses, and tries to wipe away some mark on her skirt that isn’t there. “He’s a good guy.”

“Sounds like it,” I say. I don’t make a move to comfort her. I can tell by the way she’s trying to cover over her upset that she doesn’t want sympathy. She’s holding it together. Gotta respect that.

I drain the pasta, keeping a cupful of the water, then I mix everything together.

“You’re not cooking the egg?” she asks as she watches.

“It’ll get warmed by the pasta and the water.”

“Really?” she asks, peering into the saucepan.

“Trust me.” I add more salt and pepper and then divide the pasta between two bowls. “Shall we sit?” I nod toward the table under the window.

She slips off the counter and we head over, onto the benches.

“Am I going to like this?” she asks.

“It’s cream, cheese, and lemon. What’s there not to like?”

“You make an excellent point.” She winds the pasta around her fork and takes a mouthful.

She moans, and my cock lengthens against my zipper.

I watch as she chews and swallows, her eyes closed.

Her eyes flick open. “Holy shit that’s good,” she says.

I grin. “It’s a secret weapon. Simple, fresh ingredients and takes as long as the pasta takes to boil.”

“It’s wild. You’ve got the magic touch, Ben.” Her cheeks pink. “In the kitchen, I mean.”

“Oh, I’m pretty good in the bedroom too,” I reply.