Before my sex-starved brain could stop short-circuiting enough to come up with a semi-coherent response, Chris’s phone rang, and he answered gruffly, going to his study.
I surveyed the mess in the kitchen, trying to psych myself up to finish the lasagna.
“Let’s go. You can do it, you can—”
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The smoke alarm sounded, and I cursed, running to my pot of tomatoes. The water had all boiled off and now the tomatoes were burnt to the bottom of the pan.
“Shit!” I cursed, swinging the pot filler to splash water in the pot. But it was too late. Black burnt bits floated to the top of the pot.
“Fuck my life.” I dumped the whole thing down the drain then opened the fridge. I found the lasagna in the back covered by two bunches of kale.
Would he notice? I chewed my lip. Hopefully not if he were drunk enough.
I snapped a picture of the wine in the wine cellar off of the kitchen.
Grace:Which of these goes best with frozen lasagna?
36
Chris
The most heavenly smell greeted me when I was finally off the phone. My grandfather’s friend Horace had asked for a conference call. He had talked me up to another of his buddies, who wanted me to potentially manage their family’s trust.
Between that, my inheritance, and Nancy Holbrook hopefully investing part of the Holbrook Foundation’s endowment with my firm, I was going to be one of the top hedge fund managers in the world.
And it was all thanks to Grace.
“Wine?” she offered brightly, handing me a glass. She still had the apron on, snug around her waist, accentuating her hourglass figure.
I accepted the glass with one hand while the other reached to untie the apron.
“We’re supposed to be having a nice supper,” she said.
“It’s ready in what, ten minutes? I can totally make you come in ten minutes,” I reminded her.
“Braggart.”
I grinned at her. “You know you want me.”
My heart felt like it was going to burst as she gave me a small little smile.
This whole thing—her making dinner, me coming back from work, the wine—it was like perfect married life.
“You’re amazing,” I told her. “Thank you for going to all the trouble for me. It’s”—I gave a small shrug—“probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“It’s just lasagna,” she said, picking at her nail.
“It’s nice,” I said sincerely.
She gave me a strange look.
“More wine?” She poured a generous amount in my glass. I sipped it as the timer rang and made appreciative noises as she pulled the bubbling pan from the oven.
“Need any help?” I asked, walking over.
“No!” she practically shouted. “Just need to add a little garnish.” She sprinkled fresh-cut basil over the top.
