Chef André's eyes sparkled with the kind of pride only a man confident in his culinary wizardry could wear. He tilted his head slightly and the corners of his mouth twitched in a smug-but-endearing way, clearly basking in the praise from Danica's mom. Then he casted a quick glance toward Alfred, as if silently declaring, "I'm good. But you? You better keep up."
Alfred didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled—quick, heartfelt, and a little bashful. "I want to cook soup for her. With my own hands," his voice was a little gruff but warm. "I want to help her in any way I can."
Danica's mother paused. Her gaze softened as she studied the young man standing in her kitchen with that quiet kind of earnestness women secretly dream about for their daughters.
He's got a romantic soul, she thought, her lips twitching with a knowing smile. I really hope they end up married. Because, my god, this man is a walking, talking Hallmark movie, and she's too stubborn to see it.
