“How sad for you, chased by a bunch of girls,” I mock, and he makes a dismissive motion with his hand, smiling shyly.
“They were my little sister’s friends. Underage teens.”
“You can’t blame them,” I say, shrugging. “You are...” illegally attractive “...a well-built guy with a cool degree.” I look down, feeling hot in my cheeks.
Erik smirks, shaking his head. “The Erik Storm on Cinder was not me,” he says. “It was just an enticing bio and a nice picture. Well, at least for them, because I hated it.” He laughs, and I follow. “That’s when it dawned on me how unlikely you are to meet a partner for life in such a shallow environment, where people are creating fake images of themselves, and we are making decisions on who to meet based on that.”
“I once met with a guy who looked like Gaston in his picture, and in reality was more like LeFou. Not that I missed a lot because he was a Gaston in the end, personality wise. And that was a no-no for me.”
Erik laughs.
“And there was also that time when I matched with a guy who looked like a surfer dude and turned out to be a grumpy Viking.”
Erik laughs even more. “Is that me?”
“What do you think?” I support my face in my hand too, each of us facing the other. I blink at him, he blinks at me, and time stands still. “So, you changed your picture into one where people can barely see it’s you to check who wouldn’t be scared away by an unattractive backpacking surfer?”
“Unattractive?” He narrows his eyes, falsely offended.
I feel myself blushing, but I stand my ground. “Well, there might obviously be people who are into that stuff.” I shrug.
“That stuff?” He arches one eyebrow now. “You mean backpacking surfer dudes or grumpy Vikings?” There is a glint of amusement in his eyes as he teases me. “You seem to have put a lot of thought into those descriptions.”
“And what are you implying with that?” I say, our eyes attracted to each other like magnets. “That I give you too much thought?”
Erik is the one to shrug this time. “That’s why I need to make Love Birds. Cinder is all about how you evaluate a picture.”
He breaks eye contact at last. I wonder if I escalated our flirting too abruptly and made a pleasant moment turn awkward. You weren’t flirting, Sol, I tell myself. And it’s more likely that you hurt his feelings than enticed him.
“I need the birds animated as soon as possible, Sol,” Erik says, returning to our work.
I straighten in my chair, taking a deep breath. My mind is not ready to focus on the project yet. It’s still full of Erik—his smell, his voice, his translucent blue eyes, his teasing smile...
I pull my laptop closer and fill my cup with tea. I fight against my inappropriate thoughts.
And eventually, I win.
Fifteen
Erik and I arrive early at the Hut, a fancy restaurant where we are supposed to meet the other teams. The owner is Lars’s good friend who’s letting us use the place while it’s closed to the public before the dinner service. After the cooking contest, we must leave the place clean and ready to receive customers. Everyone is talking about how cool it is that we get to cook in such a fine restaurant, having it all for ourselves.
When all the couples have arrived, Lars explains the rules. “Lotte and I are the hosts, and you guys will be in your teams, each couple responsible for cooking a dish according to our guidelines. I’ve used a part of our Fun Season budget to buy some ingredients, and they’ll be available in the kitchen. Whatever you can find, you can use. What is locked away belongs to the restaurant and shouldn’t be touched. Is everything clear so far?”
He looks at the group, and we all confirm by nodding our heads.
“You’ll have sixty minutes to prepare your dishes and serve them on plates for all of us to eat. Lotte and I will be the judges. We’ll stay here at our table, and we’ll rate your dishes without knowing who made what.” He lifts a finger, his voice rising over the excited murmurs. “I have six envelopes with me. Each couple will take one and follow the instructions. They will tell you what kind of dish you must cook.” He holds a hand out, offering us six envelopes. I grab one.
“Go, now! You have one hour!” Lars taps his watch.
The couples spread around, putting their heads together to read what is in their envelope. Erik lands a hand on my shoulder, leaning closer to see what we got. My heartbeat instantly rises.
“A hot dish,” I read in a whisper, a bit breathless. “You may use the stove, and you can use whatever ingredients and tools you find in the kitchen.” I look up at Erik, and he’s so close to my face, my stomach flips. “Any ideas?”
“It all depends on what we can find in the fridge,” he says with his minty breath. I swallow hard, nodding. “Come on,” he calls, adding some distance between our bodies. “Before the others raid it.”
He takes my hand, and we hurry to the big industrial kitchen. Chiara and Anika are already choosing pots. Simon and Lia are taking fruits and vegetables from the cold room. George and Alex are organizing their workspace. Ellen and Mads are standing in front of the oven, discussing options, and Martin and Astrid are looking in the small fridge. Erik and I see why: the big walk-in refrigerator is locked.
We come from behind them, trying to peek over their shoulders.
“You guys wait your turn,” Martin says, gathering ingredients in his arms.
“What are you making?” Astrid asks us, smiling. “Our dish should be soup.”
“Perfect. Then you don’t need the beef.” Erik sneaks a hand inside the fridge and steals a piece of meat.
“Hey!” Martin protests.
“It’s a race, my friend,” Erik says and passes an arm around me, guiding me away. We laugh quietly all the way to the stove, and I’m so hyped by his touch, my body trembles and pulsates.
“Nothing like a chance to beat your foe, huh?”
“Martin is not great in the kitchen,” Erik tells me with a mischievous grin, his face flushed with the heat indoors and the tension of a tight schedule. There is also a thick layer of excitement around him, and I let myself take it in.
“So, what do we make?” I ask him. “Now we have beef. What about your stroganoff? It’s easy enough, right? And delicious.”
“Then we make your Brazilian version.”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m not... Yours is better.”
