“And horses,” Delaney agrees. “Can’t forget them.”
“You like animals?” I ask.
“Love them,” she replies without hesitation. “I wanted a dog for years, but… my old schedule didn’t really work for that. I’m excited to be around them more. Once I’m not burning potatoes and getting lost between the house and the barn.”
“You didn’t burn the potatoes. They’re perfect.”
She blinks. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I say, then feel stupidly self-conscious. I clear my throat. “Can tell when someone’s put time into a skill. Food’s no different than working with a green horse. You can see the hours.”
Her expression softens at that. I guess I said something right.
Silas raises a brow at me over his glass, smirking. He’s just found a new toy.
“Would you look at that,” he drawls. “Caleb out here writing poetry about potatoes.”
I shoot him a look. “Shut up and pass the bread.”
He does, still smirking. But there’s an approval in it too.
By the time I go back for seconds, I’ve stopped pretending this is just polite appreciation.
I am legitimately impressed.
It’s not just that the food tastes good. It feels intentional. She’s trying to make this table more than a place to shovel calories.
She’s feeding more than our bodies.
She’s feeding something hungry in the house that we didn’t realize was starving.
When dinner’s done, Sadie is drooping in her chair, fighting sleep. Boone checks the time.
“Bath and bed,” he reminds her.
She groans. “But dessert.”
“Dessert tomorrow,” Delaney says gently. “We can bake brownies together, if it’s okay with your dad.”
Sadie perks right up. “Daddy? Please?”
Boone glances at Delaney, then back at his daughter.
“We’ll see,” he declares, which we all know is his version of yes.
Sadie grins and hugs Delaney’s arm.
“You make the house smell good,” she tells her solemnly, then stomps down the hall in her little socks.
When they’re gone, it’s quieter. Silas leans back in his chair, stretching out comfortably.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Delaney announces, starting to stack plates.
“You cooked,” I hear myself say. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve got it.”
“Don’t worry,” Silas cuts in, hopping up. “I’ll supervise. Delegate. Offer helpful commentary.”
