“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked.
“My grandmother’s.” He plated a second sandwich. “I used to go there after school to have tea with her and my grandfather. You should eat that while it’s hot.”
I took an obedient bite. “Mm. This is fantastic.”
Color tinged his cheekbones. “It’s just a sandwich. Wine?”
“Please. I promise not to fling it at you.”
Which won me another near smile.
We sat side by side at the open counter to eat, our knees angled together, our shoulders almost touching. “Did your grandmother teach you to bake, too?” I asked.
His laugh was deep and unexpected. “Hardly. She bought her biscuits from Fortnum and Mason. But when she died...” He chewed. Swallowed. “I’d pop round and fix tea for my grandfather. Not up to Nana’s standards, obviously. But I could do beans on toast. Cucumber sandwiches. That sort of thing.”
“At least he didn’t starve,” I said without thinking.
“That was the goal,” Tim said dryly.
“Sorry. That’s something my aunt Em used to say.”
An early memory surfaced. Me, standing on a chair in the farmhouse kitchen, swaddled in one of Em’s aprons as she taught me to scramble eggs. I must have been very young, five or six. Toni wasn’t in the picture yet. Everything warm and golden, the sunlight streaming from the window over the sink, the butter in the pan, her hand over mine on the fork. “At least now you won’t starve,” she’d said.
“She was big on teaching me the basics. How to heat soup in the microwave. Cut up fruit. Make peanut butter sandwiches.” I’d done my best to learn, trying not to be a burden.
“Survival skills,” Tim said.
I blinked. “I never thought of it like that. Cooking as a love language.” As my aunt’s way of making sure I was fed, even after my mother took me away from her and the farm. A lump formed in my throat.
“And now you cook for your sister.”
I nodded. “And Reeti.” A pause. “I used to cook for Gray, too.” Putting it out there, almost daring him to judge.
Tim didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t mind,” I added. “I like to cook. I liked taking care of him, doing little stuff. Looking up recipes. Buying his favorite cereal. Cutting up pineapple and veggies so he would eat healthier snacks.”
Tim looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “And what did he do for you?”
“He didn’t have to do anything. He just... was. I’d never really been in a serious relationship before. I liked that he needed me. Or he said he did. I miss that,” I confided. “Feeling necessary to someone, like I was part of something, half of a couple. Well, you know.”
“Not really.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it. Maybe over the weeks and months, I was absorbing some of his ability to listen without interruption. Without blame. I took a big sip of wine, giving him space.
“Laura and I didn’t have that kind of relationship,” he said at last. “She never needed me.”
“But you were engaged.” The words slipped out.
“Yes.” Tim took his time refilling my wineglass. “She wanted... what I represented, I suppose.”
His voice was even. Unbothered. But I knew him now, recognized the furrow he got between his brows, the slight tension in his shoulders. I knew how it felt, not to be wanted for yourself.
My heart tugged. “I’m sorry. That’s really shitty.”
“She cared for me,” Tim said. “It’s just... She was ready to get married, and I checked all the appropriate boxes—the right schools, the right background. She worked for my father. Our families approved.”
“I get it,” I said.She belonged.
