Down the hall, my husband moves.
The word makes my stomach flip.
I turn onto my side.
Sleep does not come easily.
But something else does.
A slow, creeping awareness.
I know exactly what I agreed to.
And for the first time, that doesn’t scare me as much as it probably should.
Chapter eight
Gabriel
“You don’t have to hover,” she says without turning around.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re standing two feet behind me watching the meatballs like they might defect.”
“They look incredible.”
She glances over her shoulder, wooden spoon in hand, hair pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck. “I know. I told you I can cook.”
“I’m allowed to appreciate greatness,” I mutter.
Maddie looks up from the table where she’s coloring what appears to be a purple unicorn wearing a hockey helmet. “Dad, you’re making the meatballs nervous.”
“I'm not making them nervous.”
“You are,” Natalie and Maddie say at the same time.
I lift both hands in surrender.
The kitchen smells like garlic and tomato sauce and something warm I can’t name yet. Not just food. Something steadier. Natalie stands at my stove like she’s done it a hundred times. Like this is her kitchen too.
It’s been less than twenty four hours.
That shouldn’t feel natural.
But it does.
“You didn’t have to cook,” I say, softer now.
She shrugs. “I wanted to. The first official family dinner deserves my favorite meal.”
“That smells ridiculous,” I say.
“It’s my specialty,” she replies. “And you need something that isn’t protein powder.”
“Fair.”
She smiles at that. Not big. Just that small curve that always hits harder than it should.
