Robin taps his fingers nervously against the wooden cutting board at his workstation, watching as the other students filter into the room and grab an apron, slowly wandering to a workstation and claiming it as their own. His stomach flops as he releases a shallow breath, craning his neck in an effort to catch a glimpse of her–a glimpse of a woman he doesn't know, and from what he can tell, isn't even there.

The little voice at the back of his head–which sounds annoyingly similar to John–tells him that this was a bad idea, that it was a rash and stupid choice that came dangerously close to creepy.

Since Marian, he hadn't even so much as looked at another woman. He wasn't interested in dating and had no desire to love again. His life wasn't at all what he'd imagined for himself, but on most days, he'd even go as far as to say that he was happy–or as happy as he could be without Marian. Roland helped, though, more than he'd ever know. Marian had died when Roland was just barely two years old; and, though the loss of her had left a hole in his heart and a ache in his soul that would never heal, he hadn't had time to focus on his own grief. Being a single father hadn't allowed much time for mourning. Roland's needs came first and though it wasn't at all the same, having Roland meant he'd always have a little piece of Marian. He saw her in his son's eyes and he heard her in his laugh, and the life he shared with Roland was a good enough consolation.

He smiles awkwardly as a couple passes him, smiling in return as they cross the room to their workstation, and the little voice reminds him that it isn't too late to back out, that no one would have to know he'd even considered any of this.

And then, the bell on the door jingles as she steps inside. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold and there are little flakes of white snow in her hair. He stands there, rooted in place, watching as she pulls off a black wool coat and hangs it with the others, and he can't stop the grin that pulled onto his lips as she grabbed one of the plain white aprons and exchanges pleasantries with a few other lingering students. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she's wearing a blue and red button-up flannel with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She looks comfortable and content, and like the sort woman you'd cuddle up with on the couch to watch something from the DVR after pulling the kids to bed. His stomach flutters when she laughs out at something someone said to her, and it's a nearly musical sound.

Drawing in a deep breath, he tries to get a handle on himself–and he presses his eyes closed as the little voice at the back of his head questions why he'd chosen to do something to completely desperate, and all he can do is hope that it all doesn't go awry.

The first time he'd seen her he'd been with Roland. It was just after Christmas and he was making his way slowly to the Merry Men Tavern to watch the Rangers game with John and some other friends. He'd decided to walk instead of taking the subway, hoping he and his son could enjoy the last of the Christmas lights and festive decorations one last time before they'd be taken down and packed away until the following year. Roland, however, was none-too-pleased to be taking the slow route, and within only a couple of blocks, he was whining that his feet hurt and lamenting that he'd have to wait longer for his promised rootbeer float.

As they'd rounded the corner, he stopped to scoop him up and toss him up onto his shoulders–and that's when he'd first saw her, standing at the workstation he was now standing at. She'd been kneading dough and listening a sweet-looking older woman, who he could only assume was the instructor, stood at her side, talking. He couldn't hear what either of them said, but the instructor was gesturing with her hands and the dark-haired woman with the gorgeous smile was nodding along–and when she punched her fist into the mound of dough, they both burst out in laughter.

In that moment, he'd been unable to move. He was completely captivated by her–by her smile and the way she laughed–and he'd felt he felt something he hadn't felt in years, and he found himself craving it and unable to look away from her. He wasn't the sort of person who believed in love at first sight and he was of the belief that love had to be earned. With Marian, they'd been friends first, and from there love had slowly blossomed; yet, there he was, standing on the sidewalk in front of a window, inexplicably drawn to the stranger in front of him, watching her and wanting, more than anything, to know her.

And now, here he is, signed up for a class he had absolutely no interest in taking, simply to get to know her.

"Hi," she says, her voice forcing his eyes to open and his mouth to go dry. "I'm Regina."

"Uh, Robin," he murmurs, clearing his throat. "I, um…" He blinks at the metal basket of ingredients sitting on the workstation in front of her. "Am clearly missing something."

Regina laughs and nods. "First time here?"

"Yes," he admits as he offers her a sheepish little grin. "I'm… feeling quite out of my element."

His breath catches as she reaches for his hand, leading him over to a large stainless steel refrigerator at the back of the room. She explains that she's been taking these classes weekly for years now, and though she doesn't need to take cooking classes–she's quite the ameture chef–it's a hobby and she enjoys it. He nods, swallowing hard as she selects one of the remaining baskets and over the light purring of the refrigerator and loud thumping beats of his heart, he hears something about a someone named Henry, and how he loves a good, homemade meal.

Pressing his eyes closed, he resists the urge to sigh in disappointment as his lung deflate–and when takes the basket from her, he can't help but notice her ring.

Shit.

He smiles though and thanks her for her help as they walk together back to their shared workstation–and she makes a quip about the classes before Valentine's Day are always a bit fuller than the rest, filled with people either trying to score a date or impress their significant others with a special meal."

"That's not surprising," he muses, clearing his throat as he sets his basket down into the cutting board as he thinks of Roland, poking his fork into microwaved green bean and asking if vegetables were supposed to taste like cardboard–and he ventures that even if he had signed up for the class looking for a date, he has no interest in pursuing a married woman and it wouldn't hurt him to take a cooking class or twelve. His son could only benefit and he renews his focus on picking up a skill or two. "If I cook, it's of the microwaved variety."

"Ah," she nods. "So, you're here to impress someone."

"His name is Roland," he admits with a soft laugh. "He's my–"

"Alright!" A man calls out in a thick Irish accent. "Who's ready to get started?"

Robin blinks and Regina giggles softly as she turns to face forward and the man, who he quickly realizes is their instructor, introduces himself as Killian Jones.

"He's… not who I thought would be teaching."

"You expected Mrs. Lucas. We all call her Granny."

"The sweet old lady with her hair tied up in a bun?" Regina nods. "Yeah, that's who I expected."

"This is her nephew," she replies. "He fills in for her sometimes."

"Oh," he nods–suddenly realizing he was never able to explain who Roland was and just as suddenly realizing it didn't actually matter. "Is he… wearing a leather apron?"

Regina nods. "It's to match his leather pants." Robin's brow arches and she giggles again as his eyes linger on their instructor, noting tight leather pants and thick eyeliner. "You're in luck," Regina muses. "He's brilliant."

Robin can only nod as he watches her light the burner, and as he looks around, he notices that all the other students are doing the same. Killian is walking around the the room, nodding as everyone reaches into the drawers in front of the to fish out their potato peeler. By the time he looks back to Regina, one of her potatoes is already peeled and set to the side of the cutting board–and he realizes, that while he was taking in the leather-clad instructor, he missed the first of the instructions.

Awkwardly, he spins the dial on the burner to high heat, and then, glancing to Regina's burner, he frowns and turns the dial in the opposite direction

"You don't want to give your potatoes a shock," Killian tells him, winking as their eyes meet. Robin grins and nods as a sly smile edges onto the instructor's lips. "You've got to ease them into their bath, then let the bubbles do their magic."

"Oh, right…" He murmurs as Killian leans on the edge of the workstation, and a little giggle escapes Regina. "So, medium heat."

Killian nods, watching as he starts to peel the potato, letting the blade skim over it as his eyes shift to Regina, watching how quickly she peels, her fingers twisting the potato as the skin falls in ribbons down to the cutting board. "Softer," Killian says, bringing his attention back to the potato between his fingers. "You're cutting away too much."

"Aren't I just going to… mash it up."

"Yes, but at the rate you're going, instead of potatoes for two, you'll have potatoes for one, and…" A coy grin edges onto his lips as he laughs softly to himself. "And that'd be a pity." Robin nods and shifts on his feet, letting the peeler skim slower over the potato–and he smiles when Killian nods encouragingly. "Just like that," he breathes out, pushing himself away from the counter. "Keep going. I'll be back."

Robin nods as he watches him go, and then, his eyes slide to Regina as another giggle escapes her. "He likes you."

"He… probably just thinks I'm hopeless."

"He always picks one… special case."

"You mean, someone who's culinary skills are so severely lacking they need in constant supervision?"

She presses her lips together and drops her potatoes into the water. "And one that's cute."

Irrationally, he feels himself brighten. "You're saying I'm cute?"

"I'm saying that he thinks you are."

"Cute and… domestically challenged," he sighs. "This sounds like it has all the makings of a bad made-for-tv movie. Fantastic." His brow furrows as she turns up the heat and reaches into her basket, grabbing the little jars of spices and the wrapped meat. "How do you… just know what comes next? I might've missed the first step, but has hasn't–"

Regina's laugh interrupts him and she leans forward, plucking a recipe card from the basket. "The instructions."

"Oh."

"He said if we were comfortable moving ahead, we could."

"So, not me."

She shakes her head and her nose scrunches. "Still, it's helpful to look at."

"Oh," he mutters quietly to himself, sighing as he reaches for his second potato, paying close attention as he skims the peeler over the skin. "I'm sure."

For awhile, they stand side-by-side in silence. He looks a the recipe card–noting that she's at least three steps ahead–and when he drops his second potato into the pot, Killian passes by offering an encouraging good and a passing wink that illicit yet another giggle from Regina. And every now and then, he catches the soft scent of her perfume–something warm, maybe vanilla and something else he can't quite place–and despite how stressed he feels measuring out little spoonfuls of spices to just-the-right-amount, her presence relaxes him. Killian returns to the front of the room, telling everyone to bring the potatoes to a boil and to carefully mix their spices and give their pork chops a good rub.

Robin does as he's told and keeps a watchful eye on the not-boiling water as he mixes his spices into a little bowl–and his he grins a little awkwardly as Killian passes him by and tells him it's time to turn up the heat.

"Alright," he sighs, looking over at her as some most of the cracked pepper falls from the pork chop to the cutting board beneath it. "I have a question." Regina looks up from her pork chops and a soft smile edges over her lips as she twists the cap back onto her little bottle of olive oil–and momentarily, he gets caught up in her smile, ignoring the reasons he shouldn't. "Your pork chops look the way my cutting board does. How do I get the spices to actually stick like that?"

She laughs, "Oh, well, there's an easy little trick to–"

"You've gotta oil 'em up," Killian says, coming to lean against the workstation as he plucks the bottle of olive oil from Robin's basket–and Robin watches as Regina bites down on her bottom lip in an effort not to laugh, and then before he can even look away, Killian is reaching for one of his hands. Robin's eyes widen as Killian uncaps the olive oil and drizzles it onto his palm–and then, he spreads it over his palm and fingers before reaching for his other hand. "Now," he says in a low voice when Robin's other hand is oiled, "Give those chops a good run down." Beside him, Regina sucks in a breath, snickering as he looks away–and he swallows hard, and nods as he reaches for the meat. Killian nods, watching as he covers the pork chops in oil. "There you go," he says, nodding to the little bowl of spices, "Now, dip them."

Robin nods and does as instructed–and when he pulls the first chop away, it looks the way Regina's did–and he grins proudly at his handiwork. Killian claps his head hand against his arm as he moves to the next workstation to check on someone else's progress. Slowly, Robin turns to Regina, chuckling softly as his he shakes his head and when she looks back at him, her cheeks are red and her eyes are teary, and before he can say anything, she bursts out laughing.

He can't help but smile at her laugh–and once again, his chest flutters. He's not as nervous as he was before–perhaps that's the benefit of flirting with someone you can't actually have–and when she reaches out and takes hold of his hand, he lets his fingers form around her palm.

She helps him to oil his pan, and she keeps looking back, keeping a watchful eye on Killian who's hovering at the back of the room and the last of the workstations. "So, you're going to want to sear them…" Her voice trails off as his brows arch and he shakes his head, and she laughs again, this time softer and quieter. "Hold them down in the pan for five minutes on each side."

"Oh…" He murmurs, nodding as he drops one of the pork chops into the oil–and then immediately, he jumps back as the oil splashes up. His cheeks redden when he realizes the little high-pitched yelp that accompanied his less-than-graceful movements–and again, Regina bursts out in laughter. "I'm clearly the pinnacle of competency and manliness. It's a very good thing that I'm not looking to impress anyone here."

"Not even Killian?"

He shakes his head and a little grin tugs onto his lips as her eyes meet his. "No." Regina reaches for the dial on the stove, lowering the heat as she nods to his potatoes, noting the hot white foam that's threatening to spill over the top. "Oh, shit," he breathes out, reaching for the oven mitt and pulling the pot to the cutting board. "I guess I really do deserve to be the teacher's special pet project."

"Everyone's a bit clumsy their first time," Killian says, grinning as his hand slips over his back. "You'll get the hang of it."

Robin nods and looks to him. "Thanks, but I… I think I might be hopeless." He shrugs and looks to Regina, watching as she slices an apple and his brow creases. "Where the hell did the apple come from?"

"The basket," Regina says simply. "There's an onion you need to slice up, too."

"Apples and valentine's go hand-in-hand," Killian tells him, cocking his brow as he lifts the apple from Robin's basket. "You know, in Medieval times, apple was thought to be something of an aphrodisiac."

Robin blinks as Killian offers a quick wink and continues making rounds around the room. "Oh… I didn't know that. Thanks, um… for that information."

"It also pairs well with pork," Regina cuts in, biting down on her lip to stop herself from yet again laughing, as Killian looks back at him from over his shoulder. "But then, I think apple goes with everything. Or, at least that's what my son says."

"Your son?"

"Henry," she says, nodding. "He's ten and… has discovered sarcasm."

At that, he laughs. "My son will be six this spring, and… it'll be a good day when he discovers sarcasm. He's quite the literalist and it's exhausting."

"You say that now, but when he's older and being sassy and refusing to clean his room, you're going to miss that little literalist… who believed that his Elf on the Shelf was really a spy for Santa and that if he told a lie, his nose would grow."

Robin watches as she drops the apple slices into the pan and reaches for the onion. "It sounds like you and your husband have your hands full."

Regina's brow furrows. "I'm not mar–" She stops. "Oh, the ring."

"Typically a ring on that finger of the left hand usually symbolizes marriage."

She nods. "I was supposed to–" She stops and her eyes narrow. "My friends keep telling me I should take it off, but I can't quite bring myself to do that." She pauses and he watches as she looks down at the ring, rubbing her thumb against it. "Henry's father and I were engaged. He died suddenly and…"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have–

"It's okay," she murmurs. "It was a long time ago and I…"

"Still," he cuts in as her voice trails off. "I lost my wife three years ago, and I'm still not quite sure how I'm supposed to move on, even though everyone tells me that's what I'm supposed to do."

"Your wife," murmurs softly. "I thought–" She stops and her cheeks flush a little and she shakes her head. "Now it's my turn to apologize. I thought–"

"You thought Roland was my boyfriend."

"I did," she nods. "Why didn't you correct me?"

"It didn't seem to matter, really," he murmurs as he shrugs his shoulders. "It seemed a moot point, considering I thought you were married."

She smiles softly and clears her throat, her eyes shifting away from him as she points to his porkchop. "You should… um… flip that before it burns."

For a second, he doesn't understand, but he follows her gaze to the pan, suddenly remembering the searing pork chops. He offered her a thankful smile as he flipped it–and the butterflies he'd felt earlier in the evening came back in full force.

He watches as she quickly slices the onion and drops it into the pan, then lowers the heat before measuring out a cup of apple cider. Slowly, she pours it in and once more adjusts the heat before covering up the saucepan–and then, a little grin edges onto her lips.

"So, you're here to impress your son?"

"What?"

"Earlier tonight, I asked you if you were here to impress someone and you said you were here to impress Roland–so, your son."

His eyes press closed. "I should say yes," he murmurs as his eyes open. "And I am sure that Roland would love to come home from school and not eat something from a box, but Roland isn't the reason I took this class tonight."

"Oh? Then–"

"I wanted to meet you," he says, cutting in abruptly and watching as her brows arch. "I… took the class, hoping that I'd have the chance to talk to you."

She blinks. "How did… I mean…" Her voice trails off and she shakes her head. "I don't understand. How did you even know that I'd be here or who I am?"

He swallows hard and suddenly, his mouth goes dry. "I… I saw you once or twice in the window. I was my way to watch the Ranger's game at my buddy's bar and you were laughing and you looked…" His voice trails off as he shrugs his shoulders, realizing how pathetic that probably sounds to her. "I… wanted to know you and I thought maybe if we hit it off here, we could… grab coffee or a drink or maybe even dinner sometime." His eyes press closed, "And now that I'm saying it aloud, I have to agree with a friend of mine who said this was creepy and desperate and–"

"Kind of sweet."

His eyes widen as he looks to her. "What?"

She nods, "It's sweet that you… wanted to get to know me. What would have been creepy is if you'd waited outside or something and asked for my number as I was walking to my car."

"That sounds like a great way to get maced."

She laughs and then her smile fades. "I don't date though." Taking a breath, he nods and look back at his searing pork chop. He'd seen that coming. "But if you were to show up here again next week, I wouldn't be opposed to sharing a workstation with you."

A soft grin edges onto his lips and his stomach flutters as he looks back to her. "Would that really be fair to Killian? Taunting him with what he can't have?"

At that she laughs out, rolling her eyes as she looks to Killian, standing at a workstation showing another one of the students how to core the apple. "Don't take this the wrong way, but he'll find someone else to flirt with. He… flirts with everyone." She sighs and nods in Killian's direction, and they both watch as he smiles slyly at an elderly woman examining her apple. "Literally everyone."

"He didn't flirt with you."

"He has his limits," Regina murmurs, tapping the handle of his pan as a reminder to check the porkchop. "And flirting with his cousin is definitely one of those limits." Robin's eyes widen as he lowers the heat and he watches as she reaches for his apple. "Besides, he owes this to me," she tells him. "I haven't had a date in… years."

"Is that what it'd be if I came to class next week? A date?"

She reaches for one of the knives and a coy little grin edges onto her lips. "I don't know," she admits. "But it's been fun having a partner for the evening and… I like you." She shrugs her shoulders and her cheeks flush slightly as she looks to him. "And I'd like to get to know you better, too." Drawing in a breath, she turns back to her side of the workstation and reaches for a spoon, pulling the boiled potatoes from the pot and dropping them into a glass bowl. "So, if you're willing to show up here next week and spend an hour or so making pot roast or shrimp scampi or whatever with me, I… think I'd enjoy it."

"I think I would, too."

A little grin tugs up at the corner of her mouth and she bites down on her lip as she reaches for the potato masher–and once again, his stomach flutters, but unlike earlier there's no dread or nausea and all he feels is excitement for what's to come.