“See? We both need major cooking lessons,” I said, staring at the mess we’d made. Bowls and utensils were scattered on the counter as we searched for just the right tool.

“But you’re the one who used to work in a kitchen. I thought we’d be okay,” Tristan teased.

I swatted him across the shoulder with a dishcloth and said, ”I was just a girl. I put the dishes in the washer and wiped the floors. Sometimes I stirred the pot. I never cooked. I was more concerned with finding a quiet corner to read in.”

After our evening dancing at the club we now owned, we returned home extremely hungry. The kitchen staff had gone home, so Tristan suggested we make a quick dinner.

Between the abundance of diners at my disposal near the college where I attended school and Tristan, who’d never even learned how to boil an egg, we had minimal experience in the kitchen.

“We can always go and hunt,” Tristan suggested, with an amusing grin on his face.

I picked up his wrist and glanced at the time on his shiny, gold watch. “It’s after midnight. By the time we get back here, it’ll be time to get up.”

“Sleep is overrated.”

“Says who?”

Tristan grabbed me about the waist and kissed me along the column of my neck. I was so taken back by his touch that I almost dropped the spoon I was holding.

He let me go and replied, “Says the woman who likes it rough.”

“I won’t argue with that. We’re going to have to learn how to cook one day. Even if it’s just something as simple as this quiche. Can you imagine if Devin were to invite us to one of those potlucks they have and we didn’t bring anything.”

“That’s what my chefs are for. We’ll bring the best dish.”

“He’d forbid that. Each couple has to bring something they made and share the recipe with the group.”

“Hmmm, sounds like a lot of trouble, but I suppose the point is more about the quality time and not the dish itself,” Tristan said.

I nodded. “Exactly.”

“Sounds like something Devin would do. No matter. We’ll practice until we get it right.”

“Okay, let’s try this again,” I said, pointing at the recipe. “One-eighth teaspoon of salt.”

Tristan grabbed the salt jar and scooped out the exact measurement. We went on like that for what seemed like a couple of hours, giving all of our attention to a dish that should’ve taken thirty minutes from start to finish. And of course, we stole more than a few kisses here and there. After setting the table, the way his house staff did with our regular dinners through the week, we sat down and served ourselves.

“How is it?” Tristan asked me as I took the first bite of the quiche.

I chewed, cringing as my teeth sank into a hard, salty bit.

“Okay.” I nodded.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. He cut into his portion and took a bite. Too bad I couldn’t read his expression. He needed to be handed an award for being the poker face master.

“What do you think?”

“Crunchy,” he stated.

“I don’t think it should be crunchy. The recipe said soft and succulent.”

“Da. But it’s all those things,” he said. “Next time I talk to Devin, I’ll tell him to put us down for Tristan’s and Elisa’s Twilight Quiche. We should have enough time between now and the next potluck to perfect the recipe. Šta ti misliš?”

“What do I think?” I asked. “Zvuči kao dobar plan.”

Tristan grinned, taking a drink of water and then diving back into the quiche.

I loved the man Tristan was becoming. Perhaps this was Tristan's true state before he grew up and experienced life. Like the quiche, Tristan was a complicated man, but he was perfect in his own way.