I’m pretty sure she knows exactly how uncomfortable this makes me. Maybe that’s why she’s staying—payback for all my grumpiness.
If so, well played, Blair. Well played.
In the kitchen Blair asks, “So, what’s on the menu?”
“It’s a Saturday, so... spaghetti bolognese,” Finn says.
“You have that every Saturday?”
Finn nods solemnly. “Aye. Sundays are roast chicken, Mondays are chilli con carne, Tuesdays are baked potatoes...”
“Really?” Blair turns to me, genuinely surprised. “And you never change it up?”
I pull the mince from the fridge and set it on the work surface. “Makes shopping simple. I know what I’m cooking, and I know we’re eating well.”
“Sure, but...” She tilts her head, studying me. “Don’t you ever want to mix things up a bit? Try something new?”
I shrug, already reaching for the onions. “Not really.”
But as I begin to chop them, I catch Finn leaning towards Blair, cupping his hand around his mouth. “I do,” he says in what he probably thinks is a subtle whisper. “I’msobored of chilli.”
The little traitor even rolls his eyes. Isn’t he a bit young to be giving me attitude about my perfectly sensible approach to family nutrition?
“Right,” I say. “Finn, you can help me with the bolognese. Blair, if you want to make yourself useful, the cutlery is in that drawer there.”
Soon Finn is on his usual stool beside me, stirring the onions and garlic while I add the mince to the pan. Blair moves around the kitchen setting the table, and I try not to notice how naturally she navigates the space, opening the cupboard to grab plates like she’s been here for months, not days. She didn’t need me to point out the cutlery drawer. Gus does circuits between us, sniffing at Blair’s heels before trotting back to check for dropped food.
“Can you put my place next to yours?” Finn asks Blair.
Really? He normally sits next to me. But I’m thirty-one, not six—I’m not about to sulk about my pal choosing another seat. Not much anyway. I add the tinned tomatoes to the pan.
Once the sauce has been bubbling for a bit, I dip the wooden spoon in for a taste. Needs a bit more seasoning but it’s getting there.
“Here,” I say, offering Finn the spoon. “What do you think?”
He tastes it seriously, considering. “Mmm. Good, but maybe a wee bit more salt?”
“Aye, I think you’re right.” I add a pinch more and give it another stir.
“Let Blair have the next taste,” Finn suggests.
Letting Finn taste off the spoon is one thing. Letting her? Feels... different. Too bloody intimate. I jab the spoon back into the pan, staring at the sauce like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.
“Da?” Finn prompts.
Nope, not happening. I taste another spoonful and nod with finality. “There you go. Perfect.”
Finn frowns. “Blair, Da’s being weird and won’t give you his spoon, but here—” He rummages in the drawer, comes up with another, and hands it to her. “You can use this one.”
Blair steps closer, amusement tugging at her lips. She takes the spoon, tastes the sauce, and I definitely don’t watch the way her mouth closes around it. Definitely not. If my face feels hot, it’s just the steam from the pan. That’s all.
“Mmm, that’s really good,” she says. “Perfect amount of salt.”
The spaghetti is ready a few minutes later, and I plate up: three for us and one for Flora, with another plate on top of hers to keep it warm.
I glance out the window. Looks like there’s a break in the rain, so I tell Finn to get his shoes on then hand him Flora’s portion. “Right, wee man. Can you take this round to Flora for me?”
“Aye, Da.” He takes it carefully in both hands, and I hold the back door open for him.
