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It’s almost endearing. Almost.
“And yet here I am, making us macaroni.” I grin back, finding her frankness refreshing. “Life’s full of surprises, yes?”
She chuckles. The sound is light, genuine, and it does strange things to my insides. But for once, I don’t mind.
“Hmm,” she muses. Her eyes dart around the room, landing on everything but me. “You’re surprisingly…domestic. I didn’t expect that.”
I snort. “Should I be offended?”
Her gaze finally meets mine, defiance igniting there. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”
I shrug, turning my attention back to the task at hand. The sounds of chopping and boiling fill the room, a pleasant change from our usual tension-filled encounters.
“Who taught you to cook?” she asks, her interest suddenly sparked.
“Jamie Oliver,” I reply nonchalantly. At her puzzled look, I clarify, “His shows, his books. Instructions aren’t as hard as you think.”
“Really, now?” She raises a brow at me as if questioning the credibility of my statement.
“Da,” I respond, moving toward the stove to tend to the simmering pot of macaroni. I stir the contents, the familiar motion bringing a sense of calm. I look at her again; this time, her expression is soft, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
“Da,” she mimics mockingly. “Guess you have hidden talents, then,” she adds.
I shrug. “We all have our secrets, yes?
Sophia frowns slightly, an unreadable expression on her face. “Guess we do.”
“And what’s your secret, Sophia Williams?” I ask, turning from the bubbling saucepan. My tone is light, but I’m watching her carefully.
She looks like I just asked her to walk through fire. “I, uh…I don’t…” she fumbles, her eyes not meeting mine, her discomfort as clear as day.
“Never mind,” I say, giving a dismissive wave, turning back to the cooktop. She breathes out a sigh, clearly relieved I’m not pushing for an answer.
What are you hiding, exactly?
I’m not an idiot. My interest is stoked, but I file away the curiosity for another time.
“You know, my ma used to make macaroni,” I steer the conversation back to safer grounds. “It was a family thing.” She exhales and relaxes. I have no doubt she’s pleased I’ve changed the subject. “I guess I also learned from watching her.” My mother’s face flashes in my mind – her warm smile, her gentle hands. I feel a pang of longing, a yearning for simpler times.
The look of surprise on her face is priceless. “Your mother?”
I nod, stirring the macaroni absentmindedly. “Da. She was an incredible woman. Tough, loving, and stubborn as hell.”
Sophia is silent for a moment, and then she smiles. “Sounds like someone I know,” she murmurs.
“And who would that be?” I ask, daring her to say it.
She gives me a pointed look, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “You.”
I chuckle, shaking my head at her words. But inside, feeling a strange warmth spreading through me.
“My…Dad used to make French toast on Sundays. It was the only thing he knew how to make, but it was our thing. Just me and him.” She pinches her lips together.
I look at her, really look at her. In this quiet moment, she seems less guarded. And I am drawn to that.
Fuck, how long has it been?
This feeling of connection, a thread of understanding. Seems like forever. Despite our differences, we’re not so unalike after all.
