“Why?”
“Because Art’s coming back tomorrow, and he asked me to cook him dinner. And despite me not being super comfy with our relationship, I refuse to create subpar dishes.” I say it carefully, watching his face. “Welcome-home-from-his-trip kind of thing.”
His eyes flicker—there and gone before I can name it.
“Besides, I miss cooking. Real cooking. Not bartending and microwaving frozen garbage for drunk people.”
“Fine. But I’m coming with you.”
“Obviously. Why else would I have told you?”
Cavall whines as we head for the door, tilting his head in that heartbreakingly hopeful way, and Lance crouches to ruffle his fur.
“Bleib.We’ll be back.”
“Reste,” I say after him.
“Stop trying to teach my dog French.”
I shrug. “Forgive me for thinking he deserves a little romance.”
The drive to Second Circle Market takes fifteen minutes, mostly in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, more like we’ve both gotten used to existing in each other’s space without filling every second with words.
Which is in itself uncomfortable, if I think about it too hard. So I don’t.
“What are you making?” Lance asks as he pulls into the lot.
“Coq au vin.”
His brow furrows. “That chicken thing?”
“That chicken thing,” I repeat, pressing a hand to my chest. “It’s a classic French braise. Chicken, wine, mushrooms, pearl onions. It takes hours, which means the whole house smells incredible, so really you should be thanking me.”
He parks and kills the engine. “How do you know Art’s back?”
“Because he called me this morning. Did he not tell you?”
His jaw shifts. “No.”
That’s the third time Art’s moved without telling Lance. First taking me home from the tavern. Then leaving town. Now coming back. A pattern I file away and don’t comment on, but the way Lance is staring through the windshield tells me he’s filing it, too.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get your ingredients before they close.”
Second Circle Market is one of those family-owned grocery stores that’s been around forever. It’s got wooden floors, handwritten signs, and an actual butcher counter in the back.
I grab a basket and make a beeline for produce, mentally cataloguing what I need. Lance trails behind me like a very large, very grumpy shadow.
“Carrots. Pearl onions. Mushrooms,” I list off.
“Yuck, no mushrooms would be better.”
“They’re cremini, not button, at least.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Button mushrooms are flavorless and rubbery, and they release too much water, which means you can’t get a proper sear.” I inspect the creminis before adding them to the basket. “Button mushrooms are the participation trophy of the fungus world.”
“Remind me never to cook for you.”
