Oliver broke the tension. “What are we making? And please tell me whatever my job is can’t ultimately ruin dinner. For example, I’m more than comfortable opening wine.”
That earned a smile from Kiernan. “There’s a Burgundy breathing on the counter. Glasses in the cabinet to your left.” He gestured toward a cutting board at the other end of the island. “Ophelia, if you’re willing, the onions need dicing.”
We fell into an awkward rhythm. Oliver poured wine and stayed out of the way, apart from stealing bits of cheese from a board Kiernan had set out.
I worked on the onions, blinking away the sting and wondering if this was punishment for snapping at him.
“You’re holding the knife wrong.”
I looked up. “Excuse me?”
“You’re going to lose a digit.” Kiernan set down his own knife and stepped behind me. “May I?”
I nodded.
He repositioned my hand. “Curl your fingers like this.” He adjusted my grip. “You control the cut as the blade follows your knuckles.”
His breath stirred my hair, and I almost leaned into him.
“Now.” His mouth was near my ear. “Slow, even strokes.”
I forced myself to focus on the onion, cutting through it cleanly but with a rhythm steadier than my heartbeat.
“Better.” He stepped away, and I missed his warmth.
I glanced over at Oliver, and he grinned. He didn’t appear jealous, more curious.
We cooked. Or Kiernan did while Oliver and I followed instructions.Crush the garlic. Stir the sauce. Taste for seasoning.He navigated his kitchen with an ease that revealed how often he must do this alone. He reached for tools and ingredients without looking, adjusting the heat and timing by instinct.
“My mother taught me,” he said when Oliver commented on his skill. “She believed every Lockhart should be self-sufficient. My father could barely boil water, and she was determined I wouldn’t be the same.”
“She sounds formidable,” I said.
“She was.” His voice softened. “She died when I was nineteen. Cancer. It was quick, at least.”
I thought of my vibrant and very-much-alive mother. Guilt pricked at me for every phone call I’d rushed through and every visit I’d postponed.
“I’m sorry,” said Oliver.
“It was a long time ago.” Kiernan returned to the stove. “I prepare her recipes when I need to feel close to her. This was her favorite. Beef stew with vegetables. Astonishingly simple.”
“Not if you’re the one responsible for the onions,” I muttered, making them both laugh.
We ate at the kitchen table rather than in the formal dining room. The wine flowed, and the food was extraordinary. The stew was rich and savory, and each bite tasted better than the last. Kiernan seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. Perhaps good food and easy company had loosened the tension he usually carried. Our conversation wandered from childhood memories to favorite books to the absurdities of intelligence work.
When he laughed at something Oliver said—a real laugh, deep and unguarded—I wished I could bottle the sound.
This was what I’d wanted to see. The man beneath the title and beneath the command. Someone who missedhis mother and cooked her recipes to feel close to her. Someone who could laugh without calculation. Someone capable of warmth despite all his walls.
After dinner, Oliver insisted on washing up while Kiernan and I dried. The domesticity of it was at once strange and familiar, especially when our shoulders occasionally brushed.
“Thank you,” I said when Oliver finished washing the last of the pots. “For tonight.”
“It was selfish, really. I’ve been hiding, and that’s not fair to either of you. I’m not good at this,” said Kiernan.
“This?”
“Letting people in,” he said, almost too quietly to hear. “I’ve been alone a long time. I’d forgotten what it was like to want to be with people.”
