Starling Hills Noodling around

outfit

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Amber had arrived ten minutes early and was now posted just outside the double glass doors of the Starling Hill Recreation Center. She leaned lightly against the brick wall, one sneakered foot crossed over the other.

Cute and comfy had been the desired effect. Her hair was pulled half-up in a semi-twist that looked effortless despite the time she’d spent making it look that way. If she was going to end up with flour on her face (and she absolutely would), at least she’d start the night looking put-together.

Phone in hand, she scrolled absently… but not really. She was re-reading her thread with Jerome that ended in a confirmed date for tonight’s Beginner’s Italian Cooking Class—complete with an appetizer of bruschetta and a main course of fresh tagliatelle with lemon-basil cream sauce.

Thankfully, no Iron Chef pressure, but enough to leave the place smelling amazing and maybe sneak a taste off his plate if she played it right.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. "I’m here!" would be easy enough to send, but something about it felt… eager. Which she was, but still.

So instead, she lingered. Checking the door. Checking the time. Checking...definitely not her reflection in the glass for the sixth time.

looks

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It was only when Jerome arrived that he realized a white shirt might not have been the best choice for a cooking lesson. Hopefully the center would provide aprons!

He spotted the familiar silhouette ahead, and, well, apparently they had thought the same about pale clothes.

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle." He called. "I'm looking for someone named... Amber?"

Grins.

She heard his voice before she saw him. The sound of him was enough to make her stomach flip.

Before she could even think it through, Amber spun on her heel, hand shooting up in the air like she was answering a roll call. "That’s me!"

And then, immediately: oh my god.

Her face went flaming red the second the words left her mouth. She froze for half a second, wide-eyed, before lowering her hand like it had betrayed her.

"Okay, wow. That was... a choice," she said, already laughing at herself as she stepped toward him. "Hi."

"I'm never regretting my choices when it comes to you, but this..." He pulled on the hem of his white shirt. "May have been a miscalculation."

A soft laugh as he opened his arms, inviting her in for a hug.

The flush on her cheeks was still lingering, but now joined by something a little softer, maybe. A little dazzled, as usual.

"Flattery and self-deprecation? Dangerous combo," she said, even as her feet were already moving toward him.

A hug wasn’t something Amber was capable of turning down. She looped her arms lightly around his waist without hesitation and smushed her cheek into the space between his chest and shoulder. Hell yes.

She leaned back just enough to glance down at his shirt. Brushing a pretend speck of flour off his chest (more so to cop a feel). "White was a bold choice, but also the classic color of a chef."

The hug had him grinning already.

"Fair point! And it's not like white is such a bold choice in other settings."

Or at least he thought?

Amber pushed her lips together like a fish, mock-considering his deep philosophical question.

"Mm… I mean, yeah, unless we were going paintballing, mud wrestling, or eating tacos while standing over a white carpet." All future date ideas.

She looked pointedly down at his shirt again, grinning like she already had plans to mess it up.

"But hey." She stepped back just enough to tug lightly at the hem of his sleeve. "You did sign the ‘I accept the risk of pasta sauce everywhere’ waiver, right?"

Oooh, paintballing sounded good. He mentally noted this for later.

"No waiver, but I thought it was implied." He replied with a chuckle.