by Lara Wilson

She watched him, hiding her amusement behind her hand when it got the better of her. He'd allowed her to stay, perched on a stool across the room only when she promised not to interrupt him.

Still, he was so very...well, Tim.

As Tim methodically measured ingredients, wiped up after himself--despite the fact that he never spilled anything--calibrated the oven so 375 degrees really was 375 degrees, and reread the entire recipe three times before even starting, Rose sat in wonder and amusement, and couldn't wait to sample the beef stroganoff.

Those mushrooms, after all, were sliced so that each piece was identical, the smaller ends discarded--with a quick run of the disposal each time because god forbid the sink back up-- and all broken noodles had been rejected.

She was kind of surprised he hadn't made his own pasta.

Maybe she'd suggest that for the next time Tim made her dinner.

He removed a wooden cutting board and knife from a drawer, lining them up precisely on the counter, then proceeded to trim the beef cubes of every tiny bit of exterior fat with the precision of someone well-used to knives.

She could certainly appreciate that.

And he actually measured the water for the noodles before filling the pot, which nearly sent her off the stool with silent laughter.

Yes, so very Tim.

But, what was most Tim was that wicked streak in him that came out on rare occasions and this time had him stealing some of Vic's white wine for the sauce.

Methodical, precise, obsessive her boyfriend might be, but there was a bit of larceny in his soul.

She could work with that.


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