I risked a glance at Noah.
He was watching me with the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he was amused. Or maybe just trying not to laugh at how completely unhinged I sounded.
I cleared my throat and looked away. “That…made more sense in my head.”
“Those must be some damn good recipes.” He wasn’t exactly smiling with his mouth, but the look in his eyes encouraged me.
“They are!” I felt myself brightening. “My gran cooked the way people should cook. Nothing fussy—just real, honest food. The kind that makes you need a second helping.” Talking about her took me back to the smell of butter and herbs, the warm sound of her voice, the meals that had taught me how to love food in the first place.
I glanced at Noah, expecting disinterest, maybe even polite boredom. But his head tilted slightly, those blue-gray eyes—like the horizon on a cloudy day—just watching. Waiting.
“Is your gran still around?” he asked softly, almost like he knew...
I swallowed around a thickness in my throat. “She passed eight years ago, right before Christmas.” She’d been alone. In her sleep. “I still think of her every day though.”
“She meant a lot to you.”
“She still does.” My heart squeezed, but it was okay. I inhaled, and the air in me lightened a little.
“So, then, you must have a few favorites…”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I felt myself grinning, and so I just…let myself ramble a little. Unchecked.
And for the first time in way too long, I felt like I could say what I felt. I didn’t need to think about ratings, or branding, or cutting into Leo’s time.... I could just talk food the way I wanted to.
And…it felt pretty damn good.
“She made the best New England clam chowder you’d ever find—none of that thick, gluey stuff they try to pass off in chain restaurants. Hers was perfect. Silky broth, light but rich, loaded with tender clams and perfectly cooked potatoes. She taught me to add a little salt pork instead of bacon, because she swore bacon overpowered the clams.”
I found myself talking about her quahogs, describing her secret breadcrumb blend.
I could see it—the baking sheet lined with shells, the scent of butter and garlic and a hint of lemon filling her tiny kitchen. My mouth watered at the memory.
“And her johnnycakes,” I sighed dramatically, placing a hand over my heart. “Thin and crispy, never too thick or doughy. She made them on this ancient cast-iron griddle that probably weighed more than she did, and you had to eat them hot. If you were lucky, she’d make a batch of sweet cream butter to go with them. God, that stuff should’ve been illegal.”
I paused, because I’d been going on and on and on, but I couldn’t help the way my heart felt lighter, happier, just thinking about it. It felt like it’d been forever since I last talked about my favorite kind of cooking, since I’d talked about her.
Not with Leo. Not with my mom. Not even with Ashley…
Noah hadn’t interrupted—not once. He just kept watching me, that tiny crease between his brows like he was puzzling something out.
I cleared my throat, giving a self-conscious shrug. “So, yeah. Any of that, really.” And then I couldn’t help but add, “That’s probably more about cooking than you wanted to hear.”
He just shook his head, almost smiling. Almost laughing. “Kind of. But that’s not the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Now I’m hungry,” he said.
The look in his eyes made my heart skip a beat.
“Right?” I held his stare. Was he actually smiling at me? Not quite. But close. And I couldn’t help it.
I smiled back.
COLD FEET
“We’re coming up on the visitor center, and here’s the deal.” Tay’s voice crackled over the PA system. “Since we’re running late, we’re going to keep this stop short. You’ve got twenty minutes—twenty minutes—to stretch your legs, take a bathroom break, and snap your photos of the ‘winter wonderland’ that’s been slowing us down.”
