“That’s sweet.”
“It was sweet. It was also survival.” I lay the jalapeños on the cheese, more than I’d normally use because I want to see if she can handle the heat. “Mom would be passed out on the couch or in her bedroom. Dad would be God knows where—the barn, probably, or just driving around, avoiding coming home. And Emma would be hungry, so I’d make us something.”
I press the sandwich together and slide it into the hot pan. The butter sizzles, and the smell of melting cheese fills the kitchen.
“How old were you?” Mia asks quietly.
“When I started cooking? Eight, maybe nine. By ten, I had a whole repertoire. Grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, boxed mac and cheese if we were feeling fancy. Plenty of homemade hot sauce to go with that one.” I flip the sandwich, checking that the bottom is golden brown. “Emma used to say I should open a restaurant.Nate’s Diner. She had the whole thing planned out—the menu, the decorations, where it would be located.”
“And where was that?” she asks, swallowing a LactoEase pill with a can of mineral water I open for her.
“Main Street in Livingston, right next to the hardware store.” I smile despite myself. Nostalgia can feel like a drug sometimes. “She said it needed to be somewhere people could walk to, because not everyone had cars. She was always thinking about stuff like that. About other people. About the planet.”
The sandwich is done. I slide it onto a plate, cut it diagonally—the only correct way—and push it across the counter toward her.
“Eat up,” I say. “Then tell me I’m not a culinary genius.”
She picks up half the sandwich and takes a bite. Her eyes widen immediately, and I watch her chew, waiting for the jalapeño to hit.
There it is.
“Oh my God,” she says, fanning her mouth. “That’s?—”
“Too hot?”
“No.” She takes another bite, bigger this time. “That’sincredible. What the hell?”
I try not to let my grin get cocky. “Told you. Secret family recipe.”
“There’s no way this is just grilled cheese.” She’s already halfway through the first half, and something warm spreads through my chest at the sight. “What’s your secret?”
“Butter on the outside, mayo on the inside. And the jalapeños have to be pickled, not fresh. Fresh ones are too sharp. These have more depth and just a touch of sweetness.”
“Mayo on the inside,” she repeats. “That’s disgusting and brilliant.”
“Story of my life.”
She finishes the first half and reaches for the second, and I realize I’m just standing here, watching her eat like a fucking creep. I make myself another sandwich, more to have something to do with my hands than because I’m hungry. The domesticity of this—the two of us in my kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows, the smell of butter and cheese—feels dangerous, like something I could get used to.
Can’t have that.
“So,” Mia says, licking a smear of cheese off her thumb in a way that makes my dick twitch, “shall we continue the interview? Or are you just going to feed me until I forget why I’m here?”
“That was the plan, actually. Death by grilled cheese. Very slow, very delicious.”
“Morbid. I like it.” She pulls out her tablet and sets it on the counter, tapping the screen to bring up her notes. “Where were we? I believe you were about to tell me all your deepest, darkest secrets.”
“Oh, was I?”
“You were. You just didn’t know it yet.”
I flip my sandwich, buying time. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you do when you’re not saving the world? When there’s no crisis, no press appearance, no Dr Julia Van Veen breathing down your neck.”
“This.” I gesture vaguely at the penthouse. “I come here. I exist. Sometimes, I watch TV.”
“What do you watch?”
