Brooke takes charge once we get there, the cart filling faster than I expected. She steers it through the aisles, plucking things off shelves without slowing down, dropping them in before I canobject: beef for the stew, a bunch of carrots, a bag of small yellow potatoes, thyme and rosemary in their little clamshells, a loaf of crusty bread from the bakery counter, two cream-colored tapers, and a pack of matches.
“This is too much.”
“This is the bare minimum. Trust the process.”
At the checkout, I send Grayson a message. I’m going home a bit early. Don’t bring Ethan with you tonight, let Linda keep him a little longer. My thumb hovers over the screen before I tap send.
The three dots appear at once. Are you okay?
I’m fine. I just want a little time to myself before you get back.
Okay. I’ll let Linda know.
A second message lands a beat later. You sure you’re okay?
I press my lips together against a smile. Stop fussing. Go play your sport.
Yes ma’am.
Brooke is reading over my shoulder. She chokes on a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Oh my God. He calls you ma’am. I’m going to be sick.”
“He calls me sweetheart, too. Among other things.”
“Stop. Stop talking immediately. I refuse to hear one more word.”
I’m still grinning when we step out into the parking lot. She hugs me hard at the cab door, the bags piled around our ankles.
“Text me when you survive this,” she orders. “And if anything explodes, blame the recipe, not me.”
“I love you.”
“I know you do.”
The mansion is quieter than I’m used to without Ethan thundering across the foyer or Grayson’s voice drifting out of the study. Linda’s left a note on the island in her tidy hand. Casserole in the oven for you if you come home early. Don’tworry about anything else. L. I read it twice before I tuck it into the cookbook drawer because it’s the exact kind of thing my mother used to leave on the counter for me, and I’m not ready to think about that tonight.
I pull out the printed recipe Brooke shoved into my coat pocket and set it beside the cutting board. “All right.” I roll up my sleeves. “Just follow the instructions, Carver.”
For the next two hours, I don’t let myself rush a single step. The beef gets cubed, then floured. Carrots come next, sliced into uneven rounds, because my knife skills are nonexistent. I scrub and quarter the potatoes. The onion makes me cry twice, and at this point, I don’t know if it’s the onions or I’m just frustrated because they don’t look like they’re supposed to. Herbs go in when the page tells me, then the stock, then the lid at the temperature the page swears by, and I stand back to look at the pot, faintly amazed it hasn’t caught fire.
I check my phone. Grayson’s ninety minutes out, which gives me enough time to pull myself together.
Upstairs, I stand in front of the closet that holds my clothes on one side, his on the other, still not used to the sight of them sharing a rail. The navy dress he bought me last week comes down off its hanger, the fabric soft against my hands, the neckline dipping low at the front, and it fits me to the inch, because it was more or less made to. I shower in the bathroom that still smells of his shampoo. Afterward I towel off, slip the dress over my head, then drag a brush through my hair until it falls in loose waves down my back.
The little velvet box he gave me with the dress is on the dresser, the diamond studs and thin gold chain inside. I put them on with hands that aren’t entirely steady. The woman in the mirror looks startled and gentler than I’m used to seeing her. I apply some light makeup after some hesitation.
Downstairs, I dim the kitchen lights, light the two tapers, and set out two plates. The stew’s been simmering for an hour. I’m reaching for the lid to taste it when tires crunch on the gravel out front.
He’s early.
The spoon slips out of my hand. There’s no time to do anything more, so I cross to the foyer with my heart climbing into my throat, and I reach the doorway just as the front door swings open. Grayson steps through with his keys in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
“Hey. Why’d you tell me not to bring Ethan home just—”
He stops.
His gaze moves past me to the dining room, taking it all in: the candles, the plates set with the good silver Linda keeps for special occasions, the smell of stew drifting from the kitchen, and me, barefoot on the marble in a dress he picked out, his earrings catching the light. The bag slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.
“Miranda.”
