A/N Howdy! It's been a while since you've heard from me, but I have been taking a rather extended break from writing – I've lost my mojo and I'm not sure when it will be back for good, if ever. So don't expect much from me in the coming months (or years…). To cut a long story short, men who can cook are sexy. Since Nick is sexy, in my head that means he can cook. Put that all together, et voila, I have a story. Enjoy! [A/N This story was reuploaded on May 23rd 2010 due to page break errors]

When Sara thought of cooking, she associated it with three things – frustration, cursing, and a distinct smell of burning. Those three things prevented her from ever venturing past the microwave and further into her kitchen. To an outsider, it was obviously the kitchen of someone with a serious cooking phobia – it looked completely unloved and unused. She had no 'special occasion' plates, no cutlery handed down to her from her grandmother, no embroidered pot holders. As far as she was aware, she didn't even have a pot to be held.

It came as no surprise to her, then, that when she ever got round to trying her hand to cooking once more, on the off chance that it miraculously worked for her this time, she would be left with a burned mess on her stove and a bandage on her hand. But hey, at least she would know that her smoke detector worked.

If she had had her own way, she would have never been in this situation – standing at the counter, the phone in one hand, the other hand hovering over the numbers as she tried to convince herself this was the only way out – it was her stupid mind that ran away with her and made her speak before she had even realised. She had been on four dates with Paul, a police officer that she had met at a crime scene, and had the genius idea that instead of going out to a restaurant where the people in the kitchen would have more of an idea of what they were doing than she could ever hope to have herself, she would cook for him. She would cook.

'How hard could it be?' she asked herself. Follow a recipe from cookbook that she had borrowed from the library, serve it up on a plate, and enjoy. That was how cooking was supposed to be, easy and effortless like it was for the TV chefs, but that wasn't exactly how it worked out for her. She had even picked the simplest dish she could think of, hoping this would work in her favour, but it had backfired horribly.

Sara picked up the phone and called the only person she thought could help her. And no, it wasn't the pizza delivery guy she had befriended after one of his numerous visits to her apartment.

"Nick, I need help." Just like that, before he had even had chance to say 'hello', she had confessed. He could cook, she was sure of it. She had eaten at his place before, and whatever it was that he made was easily a thousand times better than anything that she had ever made. She was sure that was one of the many reasons he was never without a girlfriend…

"What's up? Are you sick, hurt? Sara?" She could hear the panic rising in his voice and instantly felt guilty for scaring him, but kind of pleased at the same time. What the heck was that about?

"Oh no, I'm fine. Well, I burned my hand and almost set myself on fire. But I just need a favour."

"Sure, anything."

"Are you busy?"

"Not really. I just got off shift."

"And you can cook, right?"

"I guess…" She could practically see him scratching his head and peering at the phone with a perplexed expression on his face.

"That's good enough."

Sara had just done possibly the most un-Sara thing imaginable – she had asked for help. She had admitted defeat, and the fact that she had been defeated by such a simple task was pretty mortifying to her. So now Nick knew that she wasn't good at everything she tried, and no doubt he would make that fact available to everyone at work. He would find it funny and think it was just one of those little quirks that everyone had – Warrick gambles, Grissom is obsessed with bugs, and Sara can't cook! – that should be shared with everyone as a witty little observation. But, as stupid as it sounded, even to her, she didn't want everyone to know that she wasn't perfect. She knew it herself, but that was a little different from everyone else knowing it, too. She sighed, knowing she was being totally neurotic and paranoid, and went back to clearing up the mess she had made in the kitchen.

He had told her that he would help her out and cook for her, then disappear when Paul showed up, something she was immensely grateful for. However, she had warned him that if he needed any specific tools (like a blender, or a wok, or a knife…) he would have to bring them with him. And he was to keep in mind that she didn't keep any fancy ingredients in her refrigerator. If he needed cheese, he'd have to bring his own.

"Are you really that bad?" Nick asked as Sara opened the door for him. She noticed he was weighed down with two large brown paper bags – one containing utensils and gadgets, the other full of food. She took one from him and led him inside.

"I wouldn't have called you if I wasn't. I really appreciate you doing this."

"Well, I'm glad I could help you out. I had to decide between coming here or cleaning out my garage; honestly, I should be thanking you, my garage is a pig sty."

"Well, hold that thought, because in a while you may be wishing you'd stayed at home." She set his bag down and helped him unpack it, taking stock of all the things he had brought, most of which looked unfamiliar to her.

"OK, I was thinking we would keep things simple – how does pasta sound? And pie for desert? I brought apples and raspberries, I wasn't sure which you liked best," he said, helping her pull an apron over her head, then spinning her around to tie it for her. As he continued talking to her, she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck, making her shiver. When she actually processed what he was saying, and what he was doing, she felt her heart sink.

"Woah, 'we'? You said you would cook. I don't remember agreeing to anything."

"Well you don't expect me to do it all myself do you?" he asked with a glint in his eye. "Besides, you gotta learn sometime!"

"No, I don't!"

"You either help me out, Sidle, or I'm walking. Good luck with your date…"

"But we had a deal!" She knew he was joking, but she really didn't want to help him. Well, she didn't mind the helping part; she just didn't want him to know just how bad at cooking she really was. If it had been anyone else, she tried to convince herself, she would feel the same way – failure was not something that she embraced.

"If the poor guy ends up in the ER after eating something you made on your own, I'll get Brass to arrest your ass for attempted murder."

Sara sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that he had won. "Shut up and hand me a spoon."

He laughed softly, and began to open packets and weigh out their contents. They were both quiet as she watched him. She noticed he wasn't working from a recipe; he just seemed to know how much he needed. This must be something he cooked a lot.

"So why did you tell him you would cook for him if you can't cook?"

"To tell you the truth, I have no idea. Maybe I forgot how crappy I was. Maybe I hoped I'd miraculously get good by the power of osmosis. Who knows. But I wanted him to like me, and this seemed like the way to do it – everyone knows people who can cook are sexy." Did she just say that. To Nick, who was in her kitchen, cooking right this very moment? All the curse words she knew didn't quite cover this situation. She was seriously considering putting her head in the oven, which was currently preheating itself to a nice high temperature. At least she wouldn't have to stop to figure out how to turn it on.

"It's only sexy if you know what you're doing. There's nothing hot about first degree burns."

"Ha-ha," Sara deadpanned at his attempt at a joke. Thank God he didn't say anything about her slip-of-the-tongue. He could probably feel the embarrassment coming off of her in waves.

The pasta sauce was gently simmering on the stove, the water was boiling in preparation for the spaghetti, and Sara and Nick (mostly the latter) were making the pastry for the pie. A big believer in making things from scratch, Nick had picked the simplest pie recipe he knew, raspberry, which only involved preparation in the form of making the crust. Once it was in the oven, he would set two timers, one for the pasta and another for the pie, to let Sara know when to take them out once he was gone and she was getting ready for her date.

"And now we add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients. A little at a time, in case we have too much."

She took the jug containing the milk, her hand hovering over the bowl as she stopped herself from pouring it. "I can't, it's too difficult! I just know I'm going to mess it up. My date will not be impressed if I have to order take-out!"

"Come on, Sara, you should find this really easy." He guided her hand so most of the liquid was poured out, but there was a little left at the bottom of the jug. "Cooking is just science – think of it that way and you should be fine. Now keep mixing that pastry and don't stop until I tell you to."

"It's not about science, it's about luck. I have no luck, therefore I can't cook. If it were just about science, then I'd be a five-star chef – I'm a scientist for crying out loud! I follow the recipes to the letter, but it still looks like I'm serving up cat vomit!"

"That's disgusting." She scowled at him, and he turned his attention back to the dough for a moment, taking it from her bowl and mixing it with his hands. "Alright, its sixty percent science. The rest is about feeling."

"Feeling? Oh please!"

"It may sound lame, but it's true – you have to know when to stop stirring, you have to know when to take it out of the oven, you have to know how much of something to put in. It's instinct." She wasn't really listening to him anymore, as she watched his hands deftly kneading the pastry. 'Get your mind out of the gutter, Sidle', she told herself. 'He's probably going to ask you to do something else now, so focus.'

"Do you want to give it a go?"

"Huh?"

"Rolling out the pastry." He set the doughy ball down in front of her and passed her a rolling pin, glad to be giving her a task that she would be able to do. He appreciated that it wasn't easy for her to admit she wasn't good at everything.

"Oh, sure."

"So, are you ever going to tell him what a horrible cook you are?"

"In a perfect world, no I wouldn't. But I suppose I'll have to."

"I can tell you now, I'm not coming over every time he wants you to cook for him. And I won't let you keep me in your closet, either," Nick joked, taking a pan from one of the bags in order to grease it before they lined it with the pastry. Sara figured it would take a special kind of person to mess that task up. Although her mind had gone to another place altogether at the prospect of hiding Nick away and having him all to herself. "I'll never get the credit I deserve if I do!"

"But I'll know that you're a good cook, isn't that enough?"

"No! I'm a glory-hound, what can I say?"

"Well, with good reason – the pasta sauce smells amazing and I hope it tastes just as good."

"It does; it's my secret weapon that I use to impress the ladies."

"Consider me suitably impressed." He laughed that laugh that made her knees weak and her heart beat rapidly inside her chest, as he took the rolling pin from her hand. She suddenly realised that she didn't actually want Paul to show up for their date – she would much rather spend the rest of the evening with Nick, here in her kitchen. This was not supposed to happen. They had been friends for years, and for years she had had a stupid schoolgirl crush on him – but it was nothing that she couldn't handle. She had gotten good at pushing her feelings to the back of her mind and acting completely normal around him, so much so that sometimes it felt like they didn't exist at all. But every now and again, something would happen – a touch, a shared laugh, a look – to force all of those emotions back to the surface. Just like now.

His hand brushed hers as he went to trim a circle of the pastry for the pie lid, and a bolt of electricity shot up her spine. If she continued overheating at this rate, she wouldn't need to put the pie in the oven, she could just stand by it for a few minutes and it would be cooked in no time at all.

"Sara, I trust you to put the raspberries in. Just about…"

"Funny. Just wait until I find something you can't do."

"I think you'll find I'm skilled at everything," he said with a wink. Sara tried her hardest to ignore the knot forming in the pit of her stomach. "Except maybe dancing. I'm a mediocre dancer."

"I'll keep that in mind." How could she not keep the image him dancing in her mind? It would probably now be burned into her brain for the rest of her life.

"OK, well, I've set the timer for the pasta, and once you've put the pie in the oven you just need to activate the timer for that. Then go get ready."

"Are we done?"

"I think so. Unless there's anything else you need?"

"No, that just seemed so… Quick and easy. And relatively painless."

"Do you think you'll be able to try it on your own next time?"

"Lets not get carried away, Nick." She helped him wash and dry the utensils that he had brought from home, and loaded them back into the bags as he put the raspberry pie into the oven. He closed the door and made a big deal of pushing the 'start' button on the kitchen timer for her .

"Alright. Good luck tonight. I'll see you on Monday."

"Thanks, Nick, did I mention that I really appreciate all this? Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

She opened the front door for him and, after he was gone, wished she had thought of something else to say, anything, to stop him from leaving. She was fully aware of how ridiculous she was being, but that didn't stop her from feeling a little lost now she was on her own. Realising that she wouldn't be alone for much longer since Paul was probably on his way over right now, she went through to her bedroom to start reluctantly getting ready.

Pulling into his driveway, Nick felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and instantly knew who it was before even looking at the caller ID – Sara. As he removed the key from the ignition, he tried to think of what could have happened that would require his assistance. He was used to being on call – that was one of the less attractive parts of his job – but this kind of 'on call' was something he wasn't really used to. Not that he minded being at her beck and call, not really.

"Have you burned the pie?" he asked by way of a greeting. If she had, he had seriously underestimated just how bad at cooking she truly was. He had even set the timer for her, so how could things have gone wrong?

"No, the pie is fine. Thanks for having faith in me, though."

He laughed. "Sorry. So why are you calling me if you're supposed to be entertaining Paul?"

"He's already left. He was on call tonight, and it was just my luck that he would be called away while he was on a date with me. So I've got a lot of extra food if you're hungry."

"Oh, Sara, I'm sorry."

"That's what you get when you go out with a cop, I guess. So are you going to help me eat this food or not?"

"He didn't even get to try the meal that you worked so hard on?"

"Me? I just stirred and rolled. You did the hard parts."

"But you were responsible for not letting it burn. I'll get my coat and be over in a little while."

"Thanks, Nick."

"My pleasure. You know, if you put the pasta in the microwave now, it would be ready by the time I get there…"

"Oh, I know how to do that! Finally, something I can do!"

"I still have so much to teach you, Sara."

"But not tonight, right? Because I think I'm all cooked out."

"No, tonight I'll help you take your mind off Paul. See you in a few minutes."

Sarah laughed as she hung up the phone and put it back on the coffee table in front of her. She was definitely beginning to feel that knot forming in the pit of her stomach again…