“It’s worse than bad.” She was doubled over, holding the counter. “Gabriel, what happened to the skin?”
“The recipe said high heat.”
“The recipe didn’t mean the surface of the sun.”
“There’s a difference?”
She laughed harder. He stood there with a stained dish towel, watching the woman he loved find his failure absolutely hilarious. He was smiling. He hadn’t noticed when he’d started.
A year ago, this would’ve bothered him. Six months ago, even. He had spent most of his adult life being the competent one, the one who didn’t fail. But now, watching Tessa doubled over in his smoky kitchen, there was nothing careful in it—no glance toward him to check if he was okay with it. She laughed the way she laughed with Lucy, the way she laughed at Henry’s cart. Like she was at home.
“Okay.” She straightened, wiping her eyes. “Move. Let me assess the damage.”
“Can you save it?”
“I’m a professional.” She pulled the pan from the oven. “The skin is toast, but the meat might be okay. Do you have—” She opened a cabinet. “Never mind. I’ll find it.”
He leaned against the counter and watched her work. Someone who walked into his disasters and laughed and fixed them and somehow made him feel more capable instead of less.
Dinner was salvaged. Tessa improvised a cherry sauce that covered the burned parts.
They ate at his dining table. He let himself relax. This was his life now, and it mattered more than anything.
“I have the Plaza event coming up,” she said. “Two hundred people.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It’s terrifying. The good kind. The kind that means I’m doing it right.”
“You’re going to be great.”
“You have to say that. It’s in the boyfriend contract.”
“There’s a contract? You know how much I love a contract.”
“Section seven, paragraph four. Mandatory supportiveness in all professional endeavors.”
“I should’ve read the fine print.”
“Too late. You signed when you said I love you.”
“I meant it. Every word.”
Her expression softened. “I know you did.”
Tell her the rest. The drawer. Your mother. Knox.He stood and started clearing plates instead.
His phone buzzed on Friday morning. Knox.
Knox: Lunch. Today. The usual.
He couldn’t refuse without making the refusal a thing. He went.
Knox was already at the table when Gabriel arrived, ribeye in front of him and the roasted chicken ordered for Gabriel.
“You missed the Hartley call last week.”
“I was running late from Brooklyn.”
