“Uhhh…that is not chicken parmesan.”
I laughed, finding her scrunched features adorable.
Adorable? Since when did I find anything adorable? Let alone a woman?
Shaking off the thought, I explained. “My mom used to make this for me all the time. She said that just because she wasn’t a good cook didn’t mean we couldn’t have nice meals.”
Aspen laughed, and that damn word—adorable—reappeared. “I like the way she thought.”
“Me too. It didn’t matter that we had a housekeeper who made our meals; she insisted on cooking every once in a while. My father and I ate them up, no matter how terrible they mighthave been.” I sprinkled cheese over the sauce and laughed, recalling a specific memory. “One time, she said she wanted something fresh. Since she knew how to cook spaghetti, she tried to adapt it into a lemon-parmesan pasta. It…was not good.”
“Oh, no!”
“She paired it with a salad, and while she ate her salad first, we ate our pasta. It tasted like she made the noodles out of lemons. When I pulled a face at how bitter it was, my dad kicked me under the table and gave me a look that said I’d better eat it. So, we did. And when my mom asked how it was, we smiled. It wasn’t until she took a bite of her own that we could finally admit how bad it was. She spat hers out and asked us how the hell we could eat something so gross.”
“Oh, my god. That is hilarious,” Aspen exclaimed. “She was lucky to have two men who loved her so much.”
My smile faltered, and I slid the tray back in the oven. “She was.”
Aspen’s smile fell away. “Sometimes it’s hard to talk about them.”
“Yeah. But it’s good, too. She was an amazing woman, and my dad loved her more than anything. It made sense that they died together. I hated losing them both, but I couldn’t imagine one being as happy and vibrant as they were without the other.”
Silence followed my confession, and I couldn’t summon the courage to meet her gaze. I felt raw and exposed, and I didn’t want her to see more in my eyes than I had already laid bare.
“My mom was an amazing cook,” she said softly. “It was ingrained in her at a young age by her mother and grandmother. They passed down their recipes and stories through cooking. When I was old enough, she started teaching me. I’ve only been to Puerto Rico once when I was little, but I feel like I know my family better than I should after a single visit because of everything she shared with me.” She smiled softly and lookeddown to where she picked at her nails. “After she passed away, our cook took over helping me with whatever I needed in the kitchen.” Another soft laugh. “When we hired her, my mom made my dad promise they would hire a Puerto Rican woman because, while my mom was a good cook, she didn’t have the time to cook very often. So, she wanted me to grow up knowing true Puerto Rican flavors.”
“She sounds amazing.”
Just like me, her smile faltered before agreeing. “She was.”
“How did she die?”
“She had heart complications caused by lupus.”
“I’m sorry,” I said more sincerely than I ever had to anyone else.
“Thank you.”
This time, when silence fell, I was the one watching her, sneaking glances between draining the pasta and stirring the sauce. I studied the way she rolled her full lips between her teeth. The way her brows pinched and relaxed as if unsure of how to react to the quiet. The way her hands fidgeted before flattening on the gleaming white quartz countertop.
When I noticed her chest rise and fall with a deep breath, shoulders drawn back, I forced my attention back to the pots, already anticipating that tilt of her chin—strong and regal as always—and not wanting her to catch me watching.
“This is very domesticated of you. Having dinner almost ready when I come home,” she said with a teasing lilt.
“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” I bragged and winked, earning me an eye roll.
“Lucky me. As long as you don’t expect me to have dinner waiting for you when you get home,” she joked.
“I mean, you are the one who’s apparently a good cook.” She raised her brow, challenging my response. “But I would neverexpect you to cook for me. That’s why I have a delivery service on call. Otherwise, I would starve.”
“Thank goodness, because despite my mom’s efforts, I’m not the best at cooking. I’m decent and rely on Dolores, our cook, to supply my addiction.”
I hummed, understanding.
“I just…” she hesitated. “I didn’t know if cooking for each other was part of your idea of areal marriagewithout actually being a real marriage.”
I snorted. “Hardly. As I said before, our marriage is more of a partnership.”
