“You said before six.”
“I did.”
He sat up slowly.
Marlowe slid from his feet with a groan.
“I was going to make dinner.”
“You were asleep.”
“I thawed chicken.”
That was when I noticed the bowl on the kitchen counter.
“Do you want to cook?”
“I want to do something useful.”
“You don’t need to earn dinner.”
“I know.”
His voice tightened.
“I want to cook.”
I nodded.
“What are we making?”
“My grandmother’s cider chicken.”
“You remember the recipe?”
“Every step.”
The pride in his answer warmed me.
“Then you’re in charge.”
I put the laptop aside.
Noah drove into the kitchen and read the note he had written for himself.
Chicken.
Apples.
Onion.
Cider.
Thyme.
Mustard.
Cream.
