I rolled my eyes, grabbing a sponge. “I’m pretty sure I can figure it out. You scrub the dishes with butter and rinse with olive oil, right?”
He almost smiled, but turned away before it could fully form. I went back to wiping the island, swiping up the last faint streaks of red, when his voice came from the hallway.
“Thank you, Lillian.”
I stopped, fingers tightening around the cloth, looking up to be sure I’d heard him right.
“You’re welcome, Khalifa.”
Chapter Seven
THE FIRST THING I NOTICEDwhen I walked into the kitchen, hair a bird’s nest and eyelids barely cooperating, was the smell.Coffee. Fresh, strong, just the way I liked it, with that espresso punch that made me believe I might actually survive another workday.
The machine was already humming on its warming plate, steam curling up like a ribbon in the cool morning air. Beside it, a plate sat on the island, covered neatly with foil. A sticky note was stuck to the top, the handwriting angled:
Eat this.
I frowned at it, mostly in confusion with a layer of suspicion spread thinly on top, and peeled the foil back. There were crispy hashbrowns, scrambled eggs—soft, not overcooked, flecked with herbs—and toast with a ridiculous amount of butter glistening in the dim light.
For a second, I just stood there, staring at it like the plate might explain itself.
Half on autopilot, I crossed to the fridge and opened it. Inside, sitting square in the center of the shelf, was a packed lunch bag. Another sticky note clung stubbornly to its zipper:
Lunch for work.
I jammed my lips together to keep from smiling. Khalifa had cooked the night before, sure, but this...this was weird. Then my eyes landed on a tall glass of green smoothie that looked like it could jump-start a spaceship. A third note was attached to it, predictably controlling:
Drink this.
I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled...healthy. Disturbingly so. One sip confirmed it—spinach, kale, and the distinct aftertaste of regret. I gagged, clutching the counter for moral support, and turned toward the sink with full intent to dump the thing when I saw another sticky note, slapped right onto the tap handle.
I said drink it, Lillian.
I glared at it for a long moment, jaw dropped, before muttering, “Bossy,” under my breath. Then, sighing like a woman facing her fate, I pinched my nose and took another sip—because apparently, marriage came in the form of unsolicited vegetable mush and passive-aggressive Post-its.
I sat down and jabbed a fork into the eggs, still warm. My chest tightened against my will when I realized they were perfect—the exact kind of creamy-salt balance I could never manage myself.
I ate slowly, because rushing through food like this felt wrong, and tried not to think about what it meant that my husband—myfakehusband—had gotten up early enough to play domestic ghost with one functioning hand.
By the time I left the apartment, coffee thermos in hand, the notes stuffed in my purse, I couldn’t decide if I was annoyed at the intrusion or touched by it. Maybe both.
At my office, the chaos didn’t wait for me to settle in. Charts piled on my desk, two residents hovered outside my door like nervous bees, and Kevin, my medical receptionist/personal assistant/occasional life coach, was already perched in my chair, spinning languidly like a villain in a swivel-throne.
He held out a large to-go cup with a flourish. “For you, my queen. One oat milk latte, extra shot, two pumps vanilla, because I’m nothing if not consistent.”
I looked at the one I’d brought from home. “Oh. Um.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you already have coffee?”
“Because,” I said, setting my bag down and reaching for the stack of charts, “there was coffee waiting for me this morning.”
“Waiting for you where?” His voice went high with drama. “The last time you made coffee, the machine literally smoked. I thought the building was going to evacuate.”
I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasthat bad,” he said, clutching his own cup to his chest. “I saw sparks, Dr. T.Sparks. Now tell me—who made you coffee?”
“Don’t you have phone calls to answer or appointments to set?”
