Wait. No.
He sold that stuff to Mimet for me, allowing me to become financially stable. That counts for something. Fine. I’ll give him half a heart.
I’m so generous.
And, blinking back to the moment where Neptun is holding out a whisk, I realize I have not been paying attention. As an internal scream builds, I take the proffered whisk and smile as though I know what he expects me to do with it.
Blessedly, I receive a context clue when he cracks a few eggs into a bowl and hands me that as well.
Awesome. Cool.
I can do this.
Ican.
For Samson.
Three hours later, I suspect that Neptun has only wanted to call me an idiot sandwich fourteen times, which is statistically better than I expected. All the same, I will be checking that I haven’t gone into negative hearts with him tonight.
We’re finishing up our last recipe—a butternut squash risotto for dinner—when the front door opens.
My heart lurches as I whip around to meet Samson’s eyes.
Neptun snaps, “Keep stirring,” and I squeak as I focus my energy back down on the pan. Once my heart’s racing and I’m staring dead at cheesy rice, Neptun says, “Welcome back, Sammy.”
Tone ice cold, Samson says, “Nep. What’s going on?”
“Cooking class. Citrus was sweet enough to let me test some new recipes with her. She can start up a wood stove by herself now. Isn’t that grand?”
Samson’s footsteps draw near, each pound of his boots echoing in my chest as he ignores the question. “While…I wasn’t home?”
My heart lunges for my throat. “I-I’m sorry. I wanted dinner to be a surprise, but you’re right, I should have asked first. This is your home, and—”
“Our home,” he interjects, then, softer, “It’s our home, Lemonade. I’m not upset.”
“And you’re notstirring.” Neptun takes my hand and scoops the spoon around every part of the pan, turning the rice and sauce over with a dexterity I am not capable of. Nevertheless, I try. I try to be a good stirrer. For love.
Samson mumbles, “I don’t remember the two of you becoming friends.”
Oh my granite. I was thinking the same exact thing earlier. Samson and I are practically soulmates already.
Neptun frees my hand, leaving me to stir pitifully on my own without training wheels. “Aren’t we all friends here? It’s a small town.”
Samson grunts, then he stomps to our room.
My eyes flick toward Neptun’s, and I make sure I keep stirring.
The man glances down at the pan—presumably to make certain I keep stirring—then he scoots in, close, and whispers, “Don’t worry. He’s not upset with you. He’s jealous.”
“What?” I hiss back.
Sagely, Neptun nods. “Very, very jealous.”
My head shakes. “There’s no way.”
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Absolutely.”
