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Carmine glanced at Haven, fighting back the emotion flooding him, and tensed when he saw tears streaming from her eyes. She had torn the envelope open and it sat on the table in front of her, her hand clutching a piece of paper she had pulled from it.
“Tesoro, what’s wrong?” he asked quietly, reaching over and wiping the tears from her cheeks. She looked at him and shook her head before hesitantly holding the paper out to him. He took it carefully, smiling as he read the words scribbled in the middle.
You were worth it.
“We should celebrate,” Celia said. “Have a family dinner in honor of Vincent. We can go out somewhere, or I can cook.”
“I’ll do it,” Haven chimed in, shoving the paper back in the envelope.
“You don’t have to, dear.”
“I know,” she said. “I haven’t really cooked a meal in so long, since I was on my own. It’ll be nice to do it again.”
Celia smiled. “Would you like to borrow my kitchen?”
“No, I can do it at home.” Almost instantly her eyes widened and she started stammering. “I mean, you know, at Carmine’s.”
A smile tugged the corner of Carmine’s lips. Home.
“I know what you mean, sweetheart.” Celia winked. “And I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’d love to have your cooking again.”
“Hell yeah,” Dominic declared. “I’ve missed it.”
* * *
A few hours later, Carmine stood near the doorway of his kitchen, watching as Haven fluttered around, humming to herself. Groceries covered every inch of his counter, more food than had been brought into his house in over a year.
“So what do you need me to do?” He knew enough to make a sandwich, but starting from scratch was something he had never had to do. “I should do something.”
He hoped Haven didn’t have high expectations, because he was probably going to fuck things up . . . as usual.
“Uh, can you start the chicken?” she asked.
He eyed the whole chicken wrapped in packaging on the counter. “Start it, like, put it in the oven?”
“No, I need you to clean it.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘clean it’? I’m not plucking a fucking chicken.”
She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t have feathers, but you have to wash it out.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Do I just wash it in the sink or what?”
She nodded and grabbed a cutting board, setting it on the counter beside the sink. “Pull the insides out and run cold water over it.”
He grabbed the chicken and set it down on the cutting board, grabbing a knife and slicing open the packaging. Grabbing one of its legs, Carmine turned it around so the opening faced him. He stared at it for a moment with disgust before glancing at Haven. She was busy cracking raw eggs into a bowl of torn bread to make stuffing.
“I’m supposed to stick my hand up there?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her when she nodded. He took a deep breath and thrust his hand inside, cringing at the feel of the cold poultry against his skin. He came upon a package of some sort and grabbed it. “What is this, anyway?”
“It’s the giblets,” she said, shrugging. “Neck, liver, gizzard, heart.”
Carmine’s eyes widened as he yanked his hand out, taking a step back in disgust. “What the fuck? Why is that in there, Haven? Who wants a chicken heart?”
Haven grabbed the package and tossed it in the trash. “People make gravy and stuff with them or just eat them whole.”
“People eat the chicken’s heart?” he asked, repulsed. “Please tell me you’ve never fed me that shit.”
She shook her head, laughing. “No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone else did and you never knew it, though.” She grabbed the chicken and set it in the sink. “Can you wash it out, please?”
