While Julian makes our dinner, I cozily curl up on his couch in front of the fireplace. Since I was the guest, he insisted I stay put and leave the cooking to him. I can smell the flavor and aroma but have no idea what he’s preparing.
People say, “A man who can cook is sexy, and a man who can cook well is even better.” He made me breakfast once, and I hadn’t had such a delicious breakfast in years. I also cook my meals, but I’ve been living alone for the past half-decade, so I’m curious if he’s the same way.
“When did you move out of your parents’ house?” I ask, standing in the living room, watching him.
“Ever since I’ve been able to make my own money,” he says, looking up at me. He’s ladling some sort of orange sauce onto a plate. “That was sixteen years ago.”
I do a mental count.
