“Good idea. Thanks, Sandra.”
The elevator arrived again, and I stepped inside before I could say something awkward.
As the doors closed, I leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly. I had turned down a woman because my heart had already moved toward someone else. That should have terrified me. It did, actually. But beneath the fear was something else. Something that felt less like betrayal with each passing day.
Saturday afternoon, I stood in the kitchen, staring at a raw chicken as if it was a bomb I had to dispose of.
“You’re glaring at the chicken,” Bianca informed me from the kitchen island.
“I’m concentrating.”
“Dad, you’ve read the recipe four times.”
I waved her off. “Good cooking requires precision.”
Winnie’s eyebrows rose over the book she was pretending to read. I’d invited her over for dinner and insisted I would be the one cooking, she would be the guest.
Billie wandered in, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. “Is the chicken dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No.”
She climbed onto a stool and watched me season the bird, her nose scrunching in concentration. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“Oh?”
“You should put candy on it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But then it’d be dessert chicken.”
“That’s not a thing, baby.”
“It could be.”
Winnie made a thoughtful hum. “Anything is possible with enough poor judgment.”
I glanced toward her. Big mistake. She was sitting at the breakfast nook in one of her usual black dresses, sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. Her hair spilled over one shoulder while she watched us all with this soft, entertained expression that still caught me off guard sometimes.
She belonged here. And even though that should’ve made me nervous or cause me to question what that meant, I simply acknowledged that truth and moved on.
I turned back toward the chicken. “I am making roast chicken,” I announced. “A respectable family dinner.”
Billie leaned toward the pan. “Can I touch it?”
“No.”
“What if I wash my hands?”
“No.”
“What if I wear gloves?”
“Still no.”
