The words hang between us. Riley's expression does a complicated dance—surprise, fear, hope, all flickering across her face before she schools it into neutral.
"We should talk about that," she says carefully.
"The rain check."
"The rain check."
I glance around the parking lot. A few parents are still loading kids into minivans. Ms. Huang waves at us from the school entrance. Not exactly private.
"Dinner tonight?" I ask. "My place? I'll cook."
"You cook?"
"I contain multitudes, Pritchard."
That gets a real smile. "Fine. What time?"
"Seven. And Riley?" I wait until her eyes meet mine. "This time, I'm not letting any phone calls interrupt us."
She shows up at 6:58, because apparently being early is a compulsion she can't resist. I open the door to find her holding a bottle of wine and looking vaguely terrified.
"You didn't have to bring anything."
"My mother raised me with manners." She thrusts the bottle toward me like it might explode. "Also, I didn't know what you were making, so I panicked and asked the guy at the wine store to pick something that goes with everything."
"Smart strategy." I take the bottle and step aside to let her in. "For the record, I'm making chicken marsala. The wine guy chose well."
"Chicken marsala." She follows me into the kitchen. "From scratch or from a jar?"
"From scratch. Is there any other way?"
"Most people would say from a jar."
"Most people are wrong about a lot of things."
She snorts, and I file away the sound as evidence that she's relaxing. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and I've got Sinatra playing low on the speaker—not because I'm trying to be romantic, but because my grandmother always cooked to Sinatra and the habit stuck.
Riley perches on a stool at the kitchen island, watching me work with undisguised curiosity. Her eyebrows rise as she takes in the organized chaos—ingredients laid out in prep bowls, the sauce already simmering, chicken pounded thin and ready for the pan.
"You actually cook."
"Why does everyone sound so surprised by this?"
"Because your public persona is 'charming himbo who probably survives on protein shakes and takeout.'" She takes the glass of wine I pour her. "This is very off-brand."
"Charming himbo?"
"Hazel's words, not mine."
"I'm going to have a conversation with Hazelabout brand management." I return to the chicken, checking the heat. "For the record, my grandmother taught me to cook. She said the way to anyone's heart is through their stomach, and also that men who can't feed themselves are useless."
"I like your grandmother."
"She would like you too. She has strong opinions about smart women."
Riley sips her wine, and I let myself watch her for a moment—the way she's settled onto the stool like she belongs there, the way her shoulders have lost their usual rigid tension. She's wearing jeans and that soft gray sweater again, and her hair is down around her shoulders.
She looks comfortable. She looks like she belongs in my kitchen.
