“What’s wrong?”
“It feels weird having you wait on me.”
“It’s just like when you visit me at the bar.”
“Yeah, but that’s your job. This is different.”
He crouches next to me at the table, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingers, his thumb smoothing lightly over my jaw before tilting my face to meet his eyes.
“You’re right,” he agrees. “Itisdifferent. I’m doing this because I want to. And because you deserve it and so much more. I want to take care of you, Steph. You and the boys. Please let me do that.”
“Okay,” I breathe, casting my eyes around the kitchen. They land on the bouquet I’d set down when we came in. “I just need to—”
“I’ll do it,” he cuts me off once more, having followed my gaze and guessed what I was about to say. “Just point me in the direction of a vase.”
I do, and watch in amusement as he takes great care trimming and arranging the stems.
“Still feels weird,” I comment as he places it in the center of the table.
“You’ll get used to it.” He shoots me a grin and turns back to his prep work at the counter.
I sip my wine while he peels and chops veggies, setting the oven on to preheat and arranging pots on the stove. He tells me about Ida, the owner of a diner he worked at in South Carolina, and the woman who taught him everything he knows in the kitchen.
“She smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, refused to wear a hairnet—‘her establishment, her rules’, she always said—and she was grouchy as shit. But man,” he shakes his head with a fond smile, his eyes going distant at the memory. “That woman could cook.”
Once the potatoes are set to boil and the other veggies are seasoned and roasting in the oven, he gets to dredging the chicken, making a point to hide the spices he uses, claiming he promised Ida he’d take the recipe to his grave. Once the chicken is breaded, he moves back to the stove, testing the oil by flicking a drop of water off his hand into the pan. It sizzles, announcing its readiness, and he places the first pieces in to fry.
“Do you think it went okay back there?” he asks, turning to face me and gesturing towards the living room. “With the boys, I mean. I’m sorry about the games. I should have asked you first. I swear I wasn’t actually trying to buy their acceptance, but … okay,” he shrugs, biting his lip uncertainly. “Maybe I was a little bit. I mean, I figured it couldn’t hurt. But maybe it—”
My giggle cuts him off, and he narrows his eyes at me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was blushing.
I set my glass down on the table and rise to join him by the stove. “It was good,” I reassure him, placing a hand on his chest.
“Yeah?” His eyes light up with hope.
“Yeah. It’s a good start.”
His arms come around me, and he leans his chin on my head. “Why are you suddenly so calm about this?”
I huff out a breath against his chest, turning my face to answer him. “I wouldn’t necessarily say calm, but it’s like that time at the library when I busted you spying on me.”
His chest rumbles with his deep chuckle, causing me to melt further into his embrace. “Wasn’t spying,” he murmurs, but I shake my head.
“Something about seeing you anxious … it makes me want to soothe you. It … like … snaps me out of my own spiral, I guess, so I can be there for you. It somehow gives me strength.”
He’s silent for a long moment, but when he speaks again, I hear the satisfaction in his voice. “That almost sounds like a real partnership, Sunshine.”
“I guess it does,” I agree.
“We lean on each other,” he declares, tightening his arms around me. “I’ll be strong for you when you need me to be, and you do the same for me. Soundgood?”
“Sounds really good.”
“Thischickenistheshit.”
“Matty!”
“Sorry, Mom, but it’s like …sogood.”
