Declan
Spencer was asleep when I got back from the Tidewater Market.Before carrying the groceries in, I went to check on him.The bedroom was dark, and he’d pulled the covers up to his chin.His breathing was deep and slow, and I smiled as I watched him doze.My heart twinged as I took in his sleep-softened features.Even bruised and with stitches, he looked handsome, if a bit battered.
I left him to unpack the groceries in his small kitchen.I took stock of what I had to work with.His fridge had been depressingly empty, save for a few condiments, the avocado, and the six-pack of beer.I’d bought chicken, pasta, garlic, olive oil, and fresh vegetables.I wasn’t a chef, but I could make a decent chicken pasta.
I found a pot and a skillet in the cabinet under the counter.His kitchen was organized the way a person’s kitchen is organized when they don’t cook much: everything was there, but nothing was where you’d expect it.The cutting board was behind the baking sheets.The garlic press was with the ladles and a random pair of chopsticks.
Dinner was almost ready when Spencer appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, barefoot, wearing the T-shirt I’d helped him into earlier and a pair of gray sweatpants.He was moving carefully, one hand braced against the doorframe.
“Something smells amazing,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
“Chicken pasta.”I glanced at him.“How do you feel?”
“Kind of like I got hit by a car.Imagine that.”He eased himself onto one of the barstools at the counter with a wince.“I could use a drink.”
“Wine goes great with this dish, but sorry to say you can’t have any.”I tossed the garlic into the skillet with some olive oil, and it sizzled.“Not with the pain meds.”
“Boo.”He rested his elbows on the counter, chin in his hands.“Water it is.”
I met his gaze.“I won’t have any wine either in solidarity with you.”
He smiled.“Aww, that’s nice of you.”
I grinned.“Well, to be honest, I forgot to buy wine, and you don’t have any.”
He laughed.“So it’s forced solidarity.Nice.”
I filled a glass of water from the fridge and set it in front of him.He took a sip and set the glass down.“I almost never cook anymore,” he said.“It seems like too much work just for myself.It’s so much easier to eat out.”
“Expensive though.”
He winced.“Yes.I should probably buy the Rusty Anchor.It would save me money in the long run.”
I chuckled.
“Since you’re here, who’s taking care of Scout?”
“Nobody.He’s fine.”I shrugged.“I checked on him when I went to get the groceries.I left him with a full bowl of food and fresh water.He’s got a doggy door if he needs to go outside, and he’ll just sleep.”I plated the pasta and brought two bowls to the counter.Then I settled beside him on the other stool.
Spencer picked up his fork and took a bite.He lifted his brows.“Yummy.”
“Thanks.I should teach you how to make this.It’s easy and fast.”
He glanced at the cutting board near the stove, where the garlic press lay.“Anything that you have to use a garlic press for isn’t easy.”
I frowned.“That’s not true.The whole point of a garlic press is to make working with garlic easy.”
He smirked.“Yes, but it takes longer to clean all the little garlic pieces out of the garlic press than it does to make the meal sometimes.”
I laughed.“You’re right.You should buy the Rusty Anchor.”
He grinned and went back to eating.
We cleaned our plates, and I had to forcibly lead Spencer to the couch so he’d stop trying to do the dishes.He really did struggle with letting people do things for him.I hoped that would change as we got to know each other better.Once I had the dishwasher filled and running, I joined him on the sofa.
“There’s something I need to tell you, but I was waiting until you were out of the hospital,” I said quietly.
His face tensed as if bracing for bad news.“Okay.”
