“This one is good,” she says. “I can pull out the herbs and spices you’ll need, too.”
"Thank you," I say, a bit jittery thinking about her words.
She places her hand gently on mine on the counter, a surprising, warm touch.
"But he let you in," she says softly. "That means something."
My chest tightens again, but it’s different this time. It's a wave of emotions I wasn't expecting: gratitude, hope, and a deep, primal desire to be that person for him.
I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod, and my cheeks heat again.
She seems to understand.
“Now, let’s see what you brought,” she says.
She gives my groceries a once-over as I speak.
“Last time I did this, I added the potatoes to the roast, but I think I’m going to mash them this time,” I say, speaking a little too quickly.
Marisol pulls a large stockpot out from a lower cabinet and places it in the sink.
“Mashed potatoes are good,” she says. “He likes garlic in them.”
“Okay. Garlic in the potatoes,” I repeat, my mind whirring with information, trying to remember it all. “Got it.”
I spot the wine and pick it up. "Is this a good wine? I don't know much about it," I say. "I don't really drink it, but I was going to put the roast in it."
She takes it from my hand and looks at it, then nods.
"Yes, good."
She opens a pantry door that’s hidden in the wall, and it’s stocked like a high-end grocery store. She pulls out a small bottle of olive oil, a jar of dried herbs.
“Fresh rosemary and thyme from the garden,” she says, pointing toward a door at the back of the kitchen. “If you want to use them.”
My eyes widen.
“Wow,” I say before I can stop myself.
She smiles again.
“Anything else you need, you just ask,” she says. Then she glances at the clock on the wall. “I need to finish the laundry. Then I will check on you before I leave for the evening. Unless you need me to stay longer."
Before I can even form a response, she’s gone, leaving me alone in this beautiful, intimidating kitchen.
I look down at the roast on the counter.
Okay.
I can do this.
I can sear a piece of meat and put it in an oven and pretend my heart isn’t bursting out of my chest because I’m standing in Nico Conti’s kitchen as if I belong here, and I’m going to spend the night in his bed.
My hands tighten around the edge of the cutting board for a second.
Then I let go, pick up the garlic, and start peeling.
Because if I keep thinking, I’m going to run.
