The Man Who Couldn't Cook Novels & Stories

He tried not to give it any importance and sat down in the other chair, in front of her. One of the employees acted as a waiter and did not wait for anyone to serve the food. Ciro would have liked to say that he also cooked, but that would be a lie. He had never cooked in his life, he did not even know how to turn on the stove. "What does this mean?" the woman asked before tasting the food. -An attempt at reconciliation. -He replied resolutely.

“Why do you look like you want to fuck me on the counter right now, woman?” “Did you make that?” He chuckled as he pulled out expensive pots and pans. “Winona, my momma taught me to cook when I was young, before she passed. I promise she never disappointed and made sure I never disappointed either. We only eat handmade in this house.” “Oh my God,” I whispered. Every other man was forgotten for a moment. This man held handmade pasta and sauce. “Please tell me you aren’t joking. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man who can cook like a boss.”

It could've been just the weather too; it was a little chilly after all. "Funny," note the sarcasm. "How do you manage to be this cute?" He grinned before taking his seat. "You've said this for the umpteenth time already," I held my fork and knife against each other. "Shall we?" "My cue, but let's shall." Adriano couldn't cook shit; I knew that the first time he tried to make toast and coffee. He was good with everything. Looking nice and clean, business, handling guns and drugs, but the one thing he couldn't do was make food. I thought growing up tough would give most people technically advanced survival skills, but him? He was another case entirely.

I asked, looking at his empty hands. He cleared his throat. "No. I'll just, uh, make something here." He went to the kitchen. Soon, the unmistakable smell of failure drifted out—a sharp, acrid scent of burning. Damon was a decent cook when he put his mind to it, but tonight, nothing worked. He tried toasting bread for a quick snack and set off the smoke detector. He tried to boil water for tea and forgot it until the kettle was rattling ominously. The man who usually moved with such confident ease was suddenly clumsy, irritated, and hungry.

I kept it stashed away where I keep everything important. “She sounds like she was something else,” he said softly. “She burned water,” I pointed out again. “People like that...remarkable people...they can’t cook. It’s kind of the rule,” he said. I squinted up at him, just barely able to make out his face in the dark. “Can you cook?” He paused. “No,” he said. I let my head settle back down. “Remarkable.” “I can make tea, though,” he said, almost hopeful.

“I don't want to watch alone. I want to participate as well.” He gave me a doubtful look before he asked the following question. “Can you even cook?” “Yes.” No, I can't cook to save my soul. “Okay, come here.” He picked me up like I was weightless and dropped me on the island, right next to the gas cooker. “So, let's make broth first.” He was doing a lot of interesting stuff, but I was no longer interested. I was eyeing this man naked. He didn't have his shirt on.

Beyond it all, the city sprawled below us, millions of lights twinkling in darkness. "You did this?" I asked, my voice softer than intended. "I cooked." He led me to the table and pulled out my chair. "I'm not completely useless in a kitchen." He disappeared inside and returned with two plates. Steak, perfectly cooked. Roasted vegetables. Garlic butter sauce that smelled incredible. "My mother taught me before she died," he said, pouring wine. "She said a man who couldn't feed himself was useless. And a man who couldn't feed a woman he cared about was worse."

The whole of America would be devastated if there were no pictures of him anywhere for about, a week. “Okay, so like, is there a chef to prepare meals or?” I couldn’t see him cooking, I just couldn’t. He wasn’t cut out for it. This man deserved to sit in his office and rule the world from above, not wear an apron and actually try to cook something. I am sure as hell that he couldn't even fry an egg. “The ladies do the cooking. And we just… chill I guess. And oh,” He pointed a finger at me,

"What do you want to know?" "Anything," I say. "Something ordinary. Something that has nothing to do with gates or seals or prophecy or any of it." He thinks for a moment. "I can't cook," he says. I look at him. "At all," he clarifies. "My father never taught me. The kitchen staff always handled everything. When I was nineteen and went through my first solo border patrol, I nearly starved because I couldn't figure out how to manage a fire and raw meat at the same time."

“I’ve never really cooked before. Well, at least nothing this complicated.” Logan was an extremely talented man. He was handsome, well-spoken, and calculating when it came to business. But the man, apparently, could not cook. It wasn’t terribly surprising. When would he ever have had the need? But here he was, trying. For me. “I’m messing this up,” he said, frustrated. He lowered the pan onto some potholders on the counter. Then took off an oven mitt and ran a hand through his hair. “No, actually,” I said and stepped into the room.