Jim looks over his shoulder into the hallway, and his eyes widen.
"Hurry guys, into the dining room," he pushes them out of the kitchen with great force. As he exits, he shoots me a wink.
I take the French toast I had prepared and laid two on each plate. After scattering powdered sugar on it, as well as adding a tiny bowl of syrup and butter, it soon looks professional.
After a healthy dab of whipped cream and a small strawberry, they are meals fit for a king. My cooking skills really haven't deteriorated.
"That looks really good," a voice murmurs beside my ear.
I smile slightly, not looking up, drunk in my own pleasurable thoughts.
"Thanks."
"Where did you learn to cook?"
