I wonder if he’ll like it.
My cooking.
I’m no chef.
I don’t pretend to be.
But I know my way around a kitchen.
I learned the basics standing on a chair beside my grandmother when I was little, watching her hands move with instinct and love.
She cooked to feed people, not impress them. To make sure no one left her table hungry.
Thinking of her tugs at my heart, sharp and sudden, and I quickly redirect my thoughts.
Old life. Old pain.
I don’t have room for that tonight.
Still, will he like it?
The Greek chicken orzo soup I’ve already planned out in my head—lemony and warm, with carrots and celery chopped just right.
The chicken salad I’ll make from the leftovers, bound with just enough dressing to hold it together without drowning it.
And the apple cobbler for dessert, sweet but not cloying, something that tastes like home even if you don’t know why.
It’s silly to care this much.
But I do.
Because feeding people feels like the one thing I know how to do without second-guessing myself.
Because it feels like offering something real.
I turn onto my other side, pulling the blanket closer, and finally let my eyes close.
It’s with Thatcher McCrae’s curious scowl and gravel-rough voice lodged firmly in my thoughts that I drift off to sleep—which is probably why I don’t hear my phone buzz softly on the nightstand, alerting me to a new message.
CHAPTER 11
THATCHER
She’s distant this morning.
Not in the obvious way—she’s doing her job, answering phones, moving through the office with quiet efficiency—but her eyes aren’t fully here.
Like her thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere heavy.
I notice because I always notice.
I tell myself it’s my fault.
Maybe I overstepped last night.
Bossing her around.
