Page 39 of The Loophole
“It’s delicious. See for yourself.”
When I fed him a bite of cake, a faint blush crept into his cheeks, and he murmured, “It’s really good.”
“Thank you for making this. It means a lot to me.”
He smiled shyly before announcing, “I can’t wait, I need to give you your birthday present. Be right back.” He darted from the kitchen and ran upstairs. A minute later, he returned with a big, brightly colored gift bag, which he held out to me as he said, “I hope you like it.”
He held his breath and waited to see my reaction. The bag contained a large sketch pad, a huge box of colored pencils, and a set of watercolor paints. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he said. “If all you want to do is keep drawing food, then go for it. But you really are an artist, Bry, so I wanted to give you a way to explore that. If you want to. But you don’t have to.”
I gave him a hug as I told him, “Thank you, I love it.”
When I let go of him, he seemed a bit flustered. “Sorry, I got carried away. You haven’t even had coffee or breakfast yet, and I’m ambushing you with an entire birthday celebration first thing.”
“It’s a wonderful way to start the day.” I began to head to the refrigerator as I asked, “What would you like for breakfast?”
He grabbed my arm, and I let him drag me back to the barstool. “You’re not cooking me breakfast on your birthday. I may not be a chef, but I can still scramble some eggs and make coffee.”
It should have made me twitchy, but I actually enjoyed watching Embry cook for me. He made such a big show out of everything he did. He tried to crack the eggs with one hand, then muttered, “Oops,” and spent the next minute fishing shells out of the bowl. When he sprinkled salt, he did it from high above the pan—a move he said he saw on a cooking show—and got it all over the stovetop. “I’ll clean that up,” he said. Next, he tried tosoften some butter in the microwave to make it more spreadable, but he left it in too long and ended up liquifying it.
But none of that mattered. Eventually, he placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me and watched with wide, hopeful eyes as I took a bite. When I told him, “It’s delicious,” he sagged with relief.
Then he popped right back up again and exclaimed, “I forgot the coffee!”
He ran to get me a cup, while I got up and retrieved some more utensils from the drawer. When he came back, I handed him a fork and said, “You made enough for three people. Have some with me.”
He took a cautious bite of egg before flashing me a smile. “It’s not bad. I thought you were just being nice.”
We’d barely finished eating when my phone rang. I glanced at the screen and murmured, “My grandfather is video calling me. That’s new.”
When I answered, I didn’t even get a hello in before he shouted, “Happy birthday, young man! How does it feel to be thirty-seven?”
“Hi, Granddad. It feels good.”
“Damn right it does! What I wouldn’t give to be thirty-seven again, instead of seventy-four. The cliché is true, you know. Youth is wasted on the young.”
“So I hear. When did you learn how to video call?”
“Last week. My new assistant showed me, after insisting I get one of those fancy Apple phones.”
“iPhones.”
“Exactly. He said it was time I joined the twenty-first century. He’s a bit of a smart-ass, but I like him. The kid’s got moxie.” My grandfather was a handsome man, but he was holding the phone at an extremely unflattering angle, whichmade him look like Jabba the Hut. I decided it was best not to point that out.
“I hope this guy lasts longer than your last few assistants.”
“Good riddance to them. They were useless.” He held the phone closer and squinted at me. I wondered where he’d put his glasses. “My brother’s cook told us you sent him an email, letting him know you’re bringing a guest for the holidays. Who is she, and why is this how I had to find out about her?”
I frowned at that. “I asked the cook not to say anything.” I’d contacted him so he and his staff could plan for an extra guest. I’d also wanted to make sure Embry had vegetarian options at mealtime.
“Of course he said something. We don’t pay him to keep secrets! What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me about her sooner.”
Well, shit. I might as well get it over with. “Not her. Him.”
He looked disappointed. “Oh. Someone from culinary school? Or a new buddy? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you made a friend. You’ve practically become a shut-in since your restaurant closed. But you got my hopes up for a minute there.”
“You misunderstand, Granddad. I’m not bringing a ‘buddy.’ I’m bringing my husband.”
“Come again?”