An American Cinderella

“Really? I thought you looked like a good cook,” he replied, cocking his head to the side. He reached up and pulled his hat off, revealing his beautiful red-gold hair.

“I am a terrible cook,” I admitted. “I can make macaroni and cheese and Pop-tarts. I never really learned more than that.”

“Anyone can make macaroni and cheese and Pop-tarts,” he teased. He ran a hand through his hair in an easy motion. “You really don’t know how to cook?”

I shook my head. “My dad was always too busy to cook. He used to pay one of his aides to make us a week of pre-made dinners so we would have home-cooked food in the house. When he married my stepmother, she had a personal chef.”

“A personal chef?” he asked, his eyebrows raising. “Sounds fancy.”

“My stepmother is... she likes money. She likes the power that money brings. The chef was her way of constantly flaunting it. She always made sure everyone knew it.”

“Sounds like some people I know,” Henry said. “Always doing things for the attention and power and not because they are the right things to do.”

“Exactly,” I replied with a nod. “What about you? Do you cook?”

“A little,” he admitted. “I can make a mean chicken-a-la-king. And my baking is actually pretty good.”

“You bake?” I tried to imagine tall, muscular Henry in an apron in front of an oven with a batch of cookies and rather liked the idea.

“I was always getting into trouble as a kid, so I spent a fair amount of time peeling potatoes in the kitchen as punishment,” he explained. His face softened with the memory. “I liked to help, so I ended up learning.”

“You bake.” Not only was he handsome, charming, had an accent, but he could cook and bake too? “Maybe you can teach me?”

“I can at least teach you how to make more than macaroni and cheese and Pop-tarts,” he replied with a laugh. “We’re here.”

The car had been stopped for at least thirty seconds without me realizing it. The driver was already outside the door, ready to open it for me. Henry put his hat back on. I hurried out of the car with Henry right behind me.

The restaurant was a total hole-in-the-wall with only a single neon sign advertising its presence. My father and I had found it one night when we ran out of dinners and were both hungry. It was one of my favorite places to get takeout now.

I led Henry through the rough wooden door and into a narrow room. There was just a single man at a counter while several people leaned against the walls waiting for their food. The scent of spices and cooking food filled the room.

“Is there anything you don’t like?” I asked Henry. He shook his head. “Would it be okay if I ordered for us then?”

“You know what’s good here,” he replied. “I’ll eat anything.”

I grinned and hurried to the counter. “I’ll take two number threes, and a order of spring rolls.”

The man behind the counter typed it into his ancient cash register and called out a number. Before I had a chance to pull out my wallet, Henry handed the man cash.

“Hey!” I narrowed my eyes at Henry.

“You've got to be faster than that,” he said with a smile.

“You win this time,” I said, sliding my hand away from my own wallet. Henry just grinned at me.

“I win every time,” he replied, looking smug at his payment victory. I just shook my head.

With our order in, Henry pulled me toward one of the corners to wait. If someone walked in and wasn’t paying attention, they wouldn’t see us at all. We leaned against the wall, our shoulders touching.

“What else do you like to cook?” I asked, watching the other guests waiting for food. The restaurant was always busy, but I knew we wouldn’t need to wait long.

“I’m having a hard time thinking of any food but noodles right now,” Henry admitted. He sniffed in. “It smells great in here.”

He took my hand in his, his thumb rubbing small circles on the spot where my thumb joined my hand. It made it hard not to think about anything but his fingers touching me like that all over my body.

“Do your siblings cook?” I asked, trying to keep my thoughts from straying too far into Henry naked in my bed territory.