Risotto requires attention. You can’t rush it, can’t walk away from it. You have to stay present, keep stirring, add liquid at exactly the right moment. It’s the kind of cooking that demands you be here, fully, instead of letting your mind wander.
Kind of like having this conversation.
“When did you take over the nursery?”
“Six years ago. Bought it from the Hendersons when they retired.” I add another ladle of broth, stir slowly. The rice is starting to release its starch, turning the liquid creamy. “Old Mr. Henderson built it from nothing. One greenhouse, some savings, and a dream. Everyone told him he was crazy—nursery work in Montana, where winter lasts half the year. But he made it work. When he was ready to sell, I couldn’t let it go to anyone else.”
“So you took over his dream.”
“Expanded it, actually.” I glance at her. “Added the second greenhouse, started the landscaping side of the business. Made it mine.”
“I’m sure he would be proud.”
“I hope so.” I add more broth. Stir. The rhythm is soothing. “What about you? The romance novels. When did that start?”
“Honestly? Right after I left.” She traces a pattern on the counter with her finger, the same way she used to doodle in the margins of her notebooks in high school. “I went to collegefor writing, but I thought I’d be literary. Serious. The next great American novelist.” She laughs, but it’s quiet. Sad. “Then I got there and I was alone in a new city, missing everyone, and I started writing something different. Just for myself at first. Little stories about a girl and the three boys who loved her. It was pathetic, really. But it helped me feel less alone.”
“It turned into a career.”
“Eventually. After a lot of rejection and terrible first drafts and crying on my kitchen floor at two in the morning.” She accepts the glass of wine I pour her, wrapping both hands around the stem. “The first book took three years to write. I almost gave up a dozen times. Convinced myself nobody would want to read about an omega who couldn’t make up her mind.”
“But you didn’t give up.”
“No. Because every time I thought about quitting, I’d think about you three. About the story I wanted to tell. About how it felt to be loved by people who didn’t ask you to be less than you were.” She meets my eyes. “You kept me going. Even when you didn’t know it. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
My throat goes tight. “Cara...”
“I know it’s a lot. I know I don’t have the right to say things like that after what I did.” She looks down at her wine. “But you asked what kept me writing. And the answer is you. All three of you. Always.”
I focus on the risotto—add more broth, stir, breathe. If I look at her right now, I’m going to abandon this pan and kiss her senseless.
“Theo?” Her voice is soft.
“I’m glad,” I say, voice rough. “That we helped. Even if we didn’t know it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, watching me cook. I can feel her eyes on me, can smell the shift in her scent—something warmand wanting underneath the honey-citrus. But she doesn’t push. She lets me finish.
That might be the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
The risotto comes together perfectly—creamy and rich, exactly how I like it. I plate it carefully, add a little parmesan, carry both bowls to the small kitchen table.
“This smells incredible,” she says, sliding off the stool to join me.
“Wait until you taste it.”
We eatat my small kitchen table, knees bumping under the cramped space, passing bread back and forth.
“This is incredible,” Cara says around her third bite. “You’re an amazing cook.”
“I like feeding people.” I shrug. “Lucas and Nate get sick of my experiments, but they still eat everything I make.”
“I live on takeout and frozen dinners.”
“That’s tragic.” I reach over and wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. Her breath catches. I pull my hand back, suddenly aware of what I did. “Sorry. That was?—”
“Don’t apologize.” Her voice is soft. “I like that you don’t think about it. You just... touch me. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
“It feels like it is.”
