Natasha rushes back to the oven, and with huge black mitts on her hands, pulls a baking dish out and sets it on the stove, then closes the oven, cutting off some of the smoke.
“It’s not supposed to be black,” she mutters, her shoulders drooping with defeat, and I can’t stay away any longer.
“What’s happened?” I ask, startling her.
“I’m sorry.” She shrinks away from me, her eyes widening. “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”
I reach out to run my hand down her arm to soothe her, and she flinches, as if I’m going to hit her.
“Hey, look at me.” She presses her lips together and lifts her pretty blue gaze to mine. “I want you to hear every word I’m about to say. Are you listening?”
She nods sharply.
“I’mnevergoing to lift my hand to you in anger. I will never hit you, punch you, or strike you in any way. You don’t have to be afraid of that when it comes to me.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and then takes a deep, shaky breath. “I tried to make you dinner.”
“I see that.” My lips twitch as I glance over at the dish on the stove and feel something in my chest shift.She was cooking for me.“What was it?”
“Greek casserole.” Her voice is so small again, and I can’t wait for the day that she’s not afraid to speak up to me.
We’ll get there.
“Wait, I made a salad too,” she says with hope springing to life in her eyes. She spins and opens the fridge, then pulls out a bowl and uncovers it.
She wrinkles her nose when she peers inside.
“I don’t know about this.”
Without looking at it, I grab a fork and dig in.
This could kill me.
First of all, it looks like soup. It’s clearly overdressed and incredibly soggy. It tastes like ... paper.
How my perfect wife managed that, I’ll never know.
“Wait!” She turns to me after cleaning up something off the floor. “You don’t have to eat that.”
“You made it.” I shrug and reach for a big spoon and a plate. “I’ll eat the casserole too.”
“No!” She shakes her head and grabs the spoon and plate from my hands. “You willnoteat that.”
I smirk, take the tools from her, and scoop out a big helping of the ... mess on the stove.
“No, Julian.” She’s staring at my plate in horror. “Please don’t eat it.”
“But you made it for me.”
“And I failed. Horribly. I don’t want you to get sick.” She shakes her head and takes the plate from me, setting it aside. “I’ll learn, I promise.”
Her lower lip trembles, and I pull her into my arms, where she immediately goes stiff as a board.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m hugging you, Angel.” She frowns up at me, and I swear to Christ, a crack the size of Nevada spears through my chest. “Hasn’t anyone ever hugged you?”
Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t say anything, and then she leans into me, her cheek on my chest, and I loop my arms around her and hold her to me.
