Chapter 26
Jeremiah
Isat in my car for five minutes, working up the nerve to walk to the front door—which was ridiculous.
This was Theo.
Sweet, brilliant Theo who made me laugh and looked at me like I was something special.
There was no reason to be nervous.
None whatsoever.
Except for the fact that tonight felt different. It felt bigger, like we were standing on the edge of something that would change everything between us.
I grabbed the bottle of wine from the passenger seat and forced myself out of the car before I could lose my nerve entirely. The front door was unlocked, which seemed very Theo—trusting and welcoming and completely unaware that he should probably be more careful about home security.
Stepping inside, I was hit with the most incredible smells.
Something savory and sweet and complex that made my mouth water and my stomach growl in appreciation. But what really caught my attention was the sound of movement from the kitchen, the soft humming of someone who was clearly in his element.
I set the wine on the entry table and followed the sounds, my heart picking up speed with each step.
When I reached the kitchen doorway, I found Theo bent over the oven, checking on something that smelled like heaven.
His hair was mussed, his sleeves rolled up, and he looked so completely absorbed in what he was doing that he didn’t notice me watching him.
I wanted to reach out, to touch his shoulder or dive my fingers into his unruly hair. I wanted to hold him and kiss him, to feel his arms wrap around me and cling for dear life. I wanted so much with this man, so much I had barely admitted to myself.
Which made whatever would come next much more frightening.
As I watched Theo fuss over his glaze with nervous, nerdy energy, old doubts came flooding back with a flurry of a thousand questions. Two shouted louder than all the rest:
When was the last time I’d been close to someone?
When had I last let someone close to me?
Like, really close, not just casual hookups or brief dating attempts that fizzled out after a few weeks.
It had been so long I could barely remember the details—some guy I’d met at the gym, maybe? We’d gone out a handful of times, spent one night together that had been fine but forgettable, and then mutually ghosted each other when we both realized we had nothing to talk about.
That had to be at least two years ago—no, three. Fine, longer.
And now here was Theo, brilliant and kind and somehow interested in me despite the fact that I delivered packages for a living and got most of my intellectual stimulation from Disney mermaids.
And then there were the words he’d said—and not said—that still had my head spinning.
He’d told me to “pack a toothbrush”—which wasn’t exactly subtle—but what if I’d completely misread the situation?
What if he was just being practical about me staying late, and I’d been building this whole romantic fantasy around what was supposed to be a friendly dinner?
What if he had a clean teeth fetish or was really freaked out by bad breath?
Maybe he just didn’t want to smell garlic breathing beside him throughout a movie.
He couldn’t possibly mean what I thought—what I hoped—he meant.
Could he?
The logical part of my brain pointed out that men who weren’t interested didn’t usually cook elaborate gourmet meals and blush when you kissed them.
But the louder, more persistent part—the part that still wondered why someone like Theo would want someone like me—whispered that I was setting myself up for disappointment.
Why did all of this have to be so complicated and nerve-wracking?
Why couldn’t there be some kind of manual for this, some clear set of signals that meant “yes, this is what I’m hoping for” versus “I’m just being nice and you’re reading way too much into everything”?
Why did I suddenly feel like a gangly fourteen-year-old boy realizing he had stronger feelings for another boy—one who was standing right in front of him?
I sucked in a deep breath and shook myself free of doubt’s grip.
This was my moment.
Fuck doubts.
Screw fear.
I knew how I felt about Theo. It was time to learn his truth.
Be bold or go home, a voice in my head urged.
Without another thought, I crossed the kitchen in three quick strides, wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, and spun him around to face me.
Before he could say a word, before he could look surprised or flustered or do that adorable thing where he pushed his glasses up his nose, I kissed him.
Deep.
Thorough.
With all the pent-up anticipation I’d been carrying around all week.
With all the feelings I’d yet to name and might never fully understand.
He melted into me for exactly three heartbeats—long enough for me to taste the hint of wine on his lips and feel the way his body fit perfectly against mine—before he pulled away with a soft gasp.
“Jeremiah,” he breathed, and I could see the flush creeping up his neck, spreading across his cheeks and making the tips of his ears turn bright red.
“Hey you,” I said, grinning at his reaction. “Miss me?”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—then spun around and bustled back to the stove, his movements quick and nervous.
“I need to . . . check the glaze,” he said, not looking at me. “It has a tendency to burn if you don’t watch it, and I’ve been working on this for hours, and if it burns now I’ll have to start over, and—”
“Theo.”
“—there’s no time to start over because you’re here now, and I wanted everything to be perfect, but—”
“Theo.”
His head slowly turned, and he finally looked at me, his glasses slightly fogged from the stove, and his face still beautifully flushed.
“Breathe,” I said gently.
He took a deep, calming breath, then another, and I watched some of the tension leave his shoulders.
“Better?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Sorry. I get a little . . . intense when I’m cooking.”
“A little?” I cocked an eyebrow, scanning the kitchen.
Every surface was spotless, ingredients were organized with military precision, and there were at least three different timers going. “This looks like the kind of operation that requires a flowchart.”
“I may have gotten slightly carried away.”
I moved closer, taking in the incredible smells and the obvious care that had gone into every detail. “What are we having?”
“Apricot-glazed pork tenderloin with Brussels sprouts and . . . oh God, I forgot about the potatoes.” He spun toward another pot, his movements graceful despite his obvious nerves.
“Theo, this smells . . . incredible. Like, restaurant-quality incredible.”
“It’s just dinner,” he said, stirring what looked like perfectly prepared roasted potatoes with herbs.
“This is not ‘just dinner.’ This is . . .” I paused, trying to find the right words. “This is the kind of meal that makes people fall in love.”
He went very still, the wooden spoon frozen halfway to his mouth where he’d been about to taste the potatoes. The only sounds in the kitchen came from sizzling oil and a bubbling pot.
Theo didn’t turn to face me. He didn’t look back. He just stood there, frozen in time.
“I mean,” I said quickly, “not that I’m saying . . . I just meant that it smells amazing. And looks amazing. And I’m sure it tastes amazing.”
“Right,” he said quietly. “Of course. Thanks.”
Something had shifted in the air between us, something warm and electric that made my chest tighten with possibility.
“Can I help with anything?” I asked.
“No, it’s all under control. Just . . . make yourself comfortable. There’s wine glasses in the cabinet above the sink.”
I found the glasses and opened the bottle I’d brought, pouring two generous servings while Theo continued his choreographed dance around the kitchen.
Watching him work was mesmerizing—every movement purposeful, timing perfect.
It was like what I imagined a German engineer might look like as he built his beloved BMW.
It wasn’t just cooking; it was artistry.
“Here,” I said, offering him a glass.
He accepted it gratefully, taking a sip that turned into a gulp. It seemed to calm him, if only slightly.
“To incredible chefs,” I said, raising my glass.
“To patient dinner guests,” he replied, clinking his glass against mine.
We stood there for a moment, drinking wine and looking at each other in his beautiful, chaotic kitchen, and I felt that familiar flutter of anticipation in my chest. Shit, it wasn’t a flutter; it was a stampede of wild hippos—and not the happy kind in the game—riled up, horny, ready-for-action hippos whose dongs dragged on the ground as they charged toward me.
Jesus, what was wrong with me?
Theo watched, his lip quirked, as I shook that image out of my head—literally—right there in front of him.
Tonight was going to be perfect.
Even if neither of us had any idea what we were doing.