“Because those are the rules.”
I start to argue with him—I don’t like rules in general and I really hate them when someone arbitrarily applies them to something stupid. Like making a stupid omelet. Garrett holds up a hand before I can say that, though.
Then he says, “Please?” in such an entreating way that I can’t say no. Not without feeling like a total bitch, anyway. And while normally that doesn’t bother me, tonight I’m going for a softer vibe.
“Fine.” I glance at the ingredients once more, than choose at random. “Onion, pepper, parsley, tomato, Kalamata olives, and cheese.”
“What kind of cheese?”
“All the kinds.” I shoot him a look that says he’s nuts. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he mimics with a grin that is decidedly less Boy Scout than usual.
I watch as he haphazardly tosses everything but the cheese and eggs in the pan and stirs it around. “What can I do to help?”
“There’s a bottle of blanc de blancs in the fridge. Why don’t you pour us a couple of glasses?”
I do as he asked, then pop a couple of pieces of bread under the broiler. By the time they’re done, Garrett’s sliding the halved omelet onto two plates and carrying them to the small café table in the corner.
Seconds later, I carry over the wine and toast. As I slide into a chair, I can’t help saying, “You know, it’s pretty crappy to make a big deal out of your theory and not share it.”
“It’s really not a big deal.”
“So you say. But I still want to know.”
He pauses for a second, like he’s reluctant to get into it. But then he gives a what the hell kind of shrug and says, “I just think you can tell a lot about a woman by the omelet ingredients she chooses.”
“Oh, yeah?” I take a big bite, then try to hide just how much I like it. It comes from years of being taught never to let my father know how I felt about anything because then he would use it against me. “So what do these ingredients tell you about me?”
“That you’re a nontraditionalist.”
I snort. “Didn’t need an omelet to tell you that, buddy.”
He shoots me an admonishing look. “I’m not done yet.”
“Oh, right.” I wave the fork in a “carry on” gesture. “By all means.”
“You’re a hedonist.”
“Umm, pretty sure the four orgasms told you that better than any omelet ever could.”
“I’ll give you that one,” he says with a grin. “Though the cheese is a dead giveaway.”
“Maybe I just like cheese.”
“More like you enjoy coloring outside the lines.”
“It makes a prettier picture,” I tell him with a shrug. “So far, none of this is exactly earth-shattering. I pretty much wear who I am on my sleeve.”
“You do,” he agrees. “The sense of adventure, the willingness to try new things, the fascination with the off-beat. But there’s another side to you—the side that refuses to ever do something the same way twice. Not because you like to experiment or because you like trying new things, but because you don’t trust the status quo. Most people find safety in routine and the familiar, but getting comfortable—being comfortable—is terrifying to you.”
I have to fight to keep my hands relaxed and my smile steady, because holy shit. That last little bit didn’t just hit close to home, it blew home off the fucking map. I don’t like the status quo and I’ve never trusted routine—why should I, when the second you get comfortable it gives someone a chance to come along and yank the rug out from under you. I may not have been a great student when I was young, but that is a lesson I learned often and well. “You got all that from an omelet?” I ask, keeping my voice light because there’s no way I’m going to talk about this with Garrett.
“I got a lot of
that from the omelet—and how you chose the ingredients. The rest I got from watching you these last few days.”
I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. “From watching me?”