Always Remember

actually that good.” She thinks for a second. “Huh. Now I have the washing machine mastered, I should probably get on that cooking thing.”
    “You can do bacon. And eggs.” I kick her under the table, and she coughs.
    “Yep. But that’s not hard to cook.” She looks down.
    “I feel like I ’m missing something,” Mum says, looking between us.
    Lexy reaches over and pats her arm gently. “If you’re missing it, then you probably don’t want to know it, Mum.”

    ~

    I wander aimlessly through Tesco. I said I’d cook – but no-one told me what to cook, and I have no fuckin’ idea what to make. What am I supposed to cook?
    Wait. Am I supposed to take wine and flowers? Where is Alec when I need some help?
    I stare at the different types of pasta, pull out my phone, and dial his number. It rings and goes to voicemail. I try it again and the same thing happens. Shit. Looks like I’m going on my gut feeling… And that says yes to flowers and wine. Right.
    I manoeuvre the trolley back round, still mulling over what to cook, and head towards the flowers. I ’m greeted by too many types and colours to count. Right.
    Let ’s just go for roses – but not red. Pink, because pink is Jen’s favourite colour.
    I scour my eyes over the display, finally finding some pink flowers, and put them in the holder at the end of the trolley. The wine is easy – Vino. Always Vino. I grab a bottle from the shelf, and turn my attention back to the food.
    Alec said he ’d made Lexy meatballs and spaghetti. It’s simple, but I guess I could that. Does that count as copying? Well, maybe, but I’m not exactly a walking cookbook, am I?
    I grab all the ingredients from the shelves, pay at the checkout, and load it into my car. On the way to Jen ’s, I glance at the clock about a million times. I have to beat her home.
    I ’m as nervous as a drug user being searched. Shit.
    I let myself into her flat with Lexy’s spare key, and look around. It’s deadly silent. I glance at the clock again. I have an hour to cook and get everything ready before she’ll be back from Uni.
    I set the bags on the table, shrug my coat off, and roll up my sleeves. My eyes travel over the numerous bags, settling on the flowers lying in front of them.
    Let’s do this.

    ~

JEN

    My nose twitches. Why is there a food smell coming from my flat? A very nice food smell.
    Bing said he was gonna cook. No. He can’t be…
    I slip my key into the lock, turn it, and open the door. I stop, my gaze being drawn to the table. Pale pink roses sit between two place settings and two wine glasses are full.
    Bing turns, wooden spoon in hand, and grins. His brown eyes twinkle, and he flicks some hair away from his face with a shake of his head. I open my mouth, close it again, and open it again.
    “What?” I ask.
    “I said I’d cook.” He stirs whatever is smelling so yummy, his eyes still on me. “So I’m cooking.”
    “But this…” I shut the door behind me and drop my bag. “…This is like proper date-dinner cooking.”
    He shrugs a shoulder casually. “I figured if I was gonna cook, I was gonna do it properly.” His mouth curls into a half-grin “But I forgot dessert.”
    I slide my coat off and hang it up. “I ’m sure you “forgot” it, Samuel.”
    “I did!” he protests, putting the wooden spoon down. “But I would prefer you for dessert, I won ’t lie.”
    He crosses the small kitchen and scoops an arm around my waist, pulling me against him. My hands press against his chest, and he brushes the pad of his thumb down my cheek before dipping his head and kissing me softly. I slide my hands to the back of his neck, link my fingers, and stand on my tiptoes to meet him.
    I nip his bottom lip, slowly running my tongue over the same spot after. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and I smile a little against his lips. His fingers dig into the small of my back, and the hand resting on my cheek moves into my hair. He holds my lips against his and slips his tongue into my mouth, sweeping the inside of it. My body automatically pushes against his, feeling the hard muscle there, and heat sweeps through me. If it wasn’t for the-
    “Something ’s burning,” I mutter.
    “Fuck!” Bing releases me and turns, grabbing the wooden spoon again. He scratches at the bottom of the pan with it, scraping the stuck spaghetti off, and turns the cooker off. He turns to me with a sheepish grin, and I raise an eyebrow
    “So much for being Gordon Ramsey,”