That’s the part that scares me most.
Chapter 5
MARCELLA
If someone had told me I’d be sharing a Valentine’s Day dinner with a stranger in the middle of a blizzard, I would’ve laughed them out of the room. Yet here I am, plating the short ribs with the roasted root vegetables and a drizzle of the reduced braising liquid, and even I have to admit it looks impressive. The meat is fall-apart tender, the vegetables caramelized to sweet perfection, the sauce rich and glossy.
I slide a plate in front of Finn, then take my own seat, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. For a moment, we both just sit there—the storm rattling the windows, warmth from the fire curling between us—like the world is holding its breath.
Finn stares at his plate for a long moment before picking up his fork.
I try not to watch too obviously, but my heart is hammering. This is always the worst part—the moment before someone tastesyour work, when all your effort and care hangs in the balance of their reaction.
“It’s not poisoned,” I offer. “Promise.”
That almost-smile again. He takes a bite.
And then he closes his eyes.
It’s a small thing—just a brief flutter of lashes, a momentary surrender to sensation—but it hits me like a punch to the chest. I’ve cooked for a lot of people. I’ve watched food bloggers and critics and friends take their first bites of my signature dishes. But I’ve never seen anyone react like this. Like the food is reaching something inside him that’s been hungry for longer than he can remember.
“Good?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He opens his eyes. Looks at me. “Yeah.”
One word. But the way he says it—rough and almost reverent—makes heat bloom across my cheeks.
We eat in near silence after that, but it’s not the awkward quiet of two strangers forced together. It’s something softer. More comfortable. Finn finishes his plate in record time, then sits back, and I can see him wrestling with something.
“There’s more,” I offer. “If you want.”
He hesitates. Old habits, maybe—not wanting to impose, not wanting to ask for things. Then he nods, and I serve him a second helping, and the warmth in my chest expands until it’s hard to breathe.
This is what I love about cooking. Not the Instagram photos or the follower counts or the sponsored content deals. This.Feeding someone who truly tastes what you’ve made. Watching nourishment happen in real time—not just of the body, but of something deeper.
I notice Finn savoring every bite, and something in me wants to read meaning into it. Wants to compare him to Stephen, who picked at his food and critiqued the seasoning and suggested I try recipes from “real chefs” instead of making up my own.
But I’ve been wrong before.
Stephen appreciated my cooking too, at first. Called it “impressive” and “restaurant-quality” during those early months when he was still trying to win me over. Before it becamewhy do you spend so much time on this?andit’s just dinner, Marcellaandmaybe if you put this much effort into other things...
I can’t let good table manners convince me of anything. Finn McGrath is hungry and I made food. That’s all this is. That’s all I can let it be.
“You okay?”
I look up, startled. Finn is watching me with those perceptive gray eyes, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just thinking.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand to know what’s wrong or tell me I’m being too emotional. He just nods, returns to his food, and lets me have my moment.
It’s such a small thing. Such a simple act of respect.
And part of me wants to let it mean something. Wants to believe that this quiet, gruff man is different from Stephen, differentfrom Boyd, different from every man who’s made me feel like too much.
But wanting something doesn’t make it true. I learned that the hard way.
So I tuck the warmth away somewhere safe, somewhere it can’t trick me into hoping for things I shouldn’t hope for, and I focus on finishing my dinner.
