Janie nods thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s entirely your decision. All Mae and I ever wanted was for the two of you to find your way back to each other, in whatever capacity. If it’s friendship, perfect. If it’s more than friendship, that’s perfect, too.”
“Really?”
She gently pushes a loose curl back from my forehead. With a knowing gleam in her eye and a loving smile on her lips, she says, “Yes.”
Dropping my hand, she picks up her cup and drains her tea. “Now, two things. First, I want to see and talk to you more oftennow—not just once a year. I don’t care what your relationship status is with my son. I wantourrelationship to be strong. Second, I need to get out of here and give you two some space, huh?”
A soft grin ghosts my lips and I exhale, easing some tension. I honestly don’t know if space for Danny and me is good or bad.
“As Mae always says, ‘Know when it’s your time to exit stage left. It’s usually sooner than you think.’”
We both dissolve into laughter.
“Away–ee-ay-ee-ay!” I loudly sing “Ocean Avenue,” my voice echoing off of Danny’s stock furniture, brought to you by the Cullen’s interior decorator. Yellowcard is blasting on full volume as I stir my homemade soup.
I’m an experienced chef. My father obviously wasn’t going to make me dinner, so I taught myself from kids’ cookbooks at the library. I eagerly inhale, smelling notes of chicken broth, onion, and toasted bread. Chicken and wild rice soup is my favorite. One time, in high school, I made a huge batch, froze it, and ate it for an entire month.
“What do we have going on in here?”
I jump, almost dropping the spoon in my hand. “Don’t startle me like that; I thought you were an intruder!”
“You do know there’s a sophisticated house alarm system here, correct?” Danny says dryly.
“I don’t care how many robots run your house, Danny. I’m a thirty-year-old woman who watches serial killer documentaries.”
He chuckles and walks closer to the stove, peering into the pot.
“Are you making chicken and wild rice soup?”
“Well, I had nothing to do after Janie left your giant manor, so I ordered groceries and decided to make us something to eat.”
“Not tomato?” he asks innocently. Tomato ishisfavorite soup, but I wouldn’t be caught dead eating it. He smirks, probably knowing exactly what I’m going to say next.
Setting down the spoon, I put my hands on my hips. “Tomato soup is just marinara sauce propaganda, Danny. It’s not real. The people behind tomato soup are the best marketers in the world.”
“Uh huh.” He turns on the oven light and crouches down to look inside. “Do I smell grilled cheese?”
“Yep, they’re keeping warm in there. I added bacon, too.”
He stands up and leans against the island. “Thanks for doing this. I rarely get home-cooked meals. It’s really nice of you.”
I nod and resume stirring, adding pepper to the simmering pot. This line of conversation is feeling a little too domestic for me now, so I introduce a subject change. “How was your physical?”
“Passed with flying colors. No injuries to work on during the offseason,” he confirms, setting two bowls next to the stove.
I ladle the soup into the bowls. “That’s great. I’m sure that can be nerve wracking.”
Danny hands me an oven mitt, and I grab the grilled cheeses out of the oven. He brings the bowls to the island, and I join him with the sandwiches.
“Thankfully, it was a pretty light year for me. I didn’t have as many tough tackles or hits as previous years, and no concussions.”
My heart stumbles at the thought of serious injuries in his previous seasons—yearsI know absolutely nothing about. I want to ask, but all I can manage is a weak, “Concussions are so scary.”
He takes a bite of the grilled cheese, licking at a thin string of melted cheese stuck on his bottom lip. “Yep. Hey, this is so good.”
My cheeks warm with the compliment, and I mentally count the carrots in my soup to avoid sinking into his hazel eyes. “Thanks. I have a lot of practice. I eat this once a week at home.”
“I can see why.” He grins.
