“Like…char?”
I run the spoon along the bottom of the pot, stirring up more black bits. “Yeah, it’s definitely burnt. But there’s another flavor, too.”
“How much salt were you supposed to add?” she asks.
“I think half a teaspoon. I might’ve done a rounded teaspoon.”
She picks up the measuring spoon and holds it next to me. “No, you added a roundedtablespoonof salt.” She grins.
“Oh shit. Oops.”
We stand side by side, staring down at the pot of destruction.
“So,” she says, “we basically made our own recipe. We can call itSalty Firepit.”
“All we need is some noodles, and voilà—a new gourmet meal,” I tease.
She leans her head against my arm and sighs. “Well, we tried.”
“That we did,” I agree.
“Takeout?”
“Absolutely.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
MIRANDA
Something is strangely comforting about failure when you’re not alone in it. The smell of burnt sauce lingers in the air as Miles and I sit cross-legged at the kitchen island, devouring sandwiches from the deli down the street.
“Okay,” I say through a mouthful of turkey and Swiss, “I think this qualifies as one of our finer meals.”
Miles looks up from his own sandwich. “You mean compared toSalty Firepit Pasta? A hundred percent.”
“Exactly.” I laugh. “I think the deli deserves a five-star review. Maybe even six.”
He lifts his sandwich like a toast. “To the true chefs of the evening—Greg and Denise from the deli.”
I tap my sandwich against his. “Cheers.”
The crinkle of deli paper around our sandwiches echoes in the quiet kitchen. The dishwasher hums in the background, and the whole place smells like toasted bread, melted cheese, and the faintest trace of our earlier disaster.
“Honestly,” I say, taking another bite, “this might’ve been my favorite dinner in a while.”
“Really? Even with the sauce explosion?”
“Especially because of the sauce explosion. I haven’t laughed that hard in months.”
He grins—that easy, boyish grin that makes something flutter in my chest. “Yeah, it was pretty epic. And, honestly, dangerous. I feel like we survived something big.”
“Oh, we did.” I point toward the mess we haven’t finished cleaning. “There are still red splatters on the cabinets to remind us of the ordeal.”
He glances over and chuckles.
For a while, we eat in comfortable silence—the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with words. That’s what’s easy about being around Miles. There’s no pressure to perform. I don’t have to be an organized assistant or the professional publicist who always has the perfect response. I can just… be.
