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“Ouch.” She took the wooden knife block out of the package, examining the shiny silver handles of the knives, making note that she needed to hide this in a cabinet. If someone broke in, these were too at-the-ready for handy murder weapons. “You need to tell me how much I owe you for this. You agreed to teach me how to cook, not outfit my kitchen.”
“You don’t owe me anything even if I had bought them, but I didn’t. I had an extra set at my place.” He cleared his throat and focused on the groceries. “They were an engagement party gift. I’d rather someone be using them than have them sitting in my hall closet.”
Andi frowned and set down the knives. He could’ve lied to her that he’d bought them, but she appreciated that he’d gone for the awkward truth instead. “How close were y’all to getting married?”
He looked over at her as he flattened the grocery sack. “My accident happened a little less than three months before the wedding date.”
Andi leaned back against the counter, considering him. “Wow, that close.”
“Yeah.” He started organizing the ingredients, dropping the eye contact. “After that, we kept pushing the date back, waiting for me to fully recover. But then…everything else happened.”
Everything else.Meaning, Officer Christina had slept with someone else. “I’m sorry.”
He glanced over at her and gave a tight shrug. “It is what it is. Neither of us held up our end of the deal. I thought I was marrying someone who took the in-sickness-and-health thing seriously. She thought she was marrying the invincible firefighter. We were both wrong.”
Andi’s jaw clenched at that. “That’s bullshit, though.”
“What?”
“If you marry a firefighter, you know there’s an inherent risk in that job. If you love that person, you’re taking on that risk with them. You don’t get to bail when they need you most because it’s hard or upsetting.”
“I wasn’t the easiest patient.”
She scoffed. “Who would be? You’d been through major physical and mental trauma. No one else gets to dictate to you what the proper way to respond to trauma is. Screw that.”
He eyed her, his gaze holding hers. “Did someone try to do that to you?”
She sighed. “Some people in my family would argue that what I went through wasn’t a trauma at all. So yeah, been there.”
He frowned, deep lines cutting in around his mouth. “That’s… I’m sorry. You know if you ever want to talk about what happened, I’m a pretty good listener.”
She nodded, the offer hitting her in a tender spot. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.” She forced a smile. “But enough about all that. I was promised tacos.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And tacos the lady shall have.” He held out a container of grape tomatoes. “After she learns how to cook them for herself.”
She smirked and walked over, taking the container from him. “I have a feeling we’re going to be ordering pizza after this.”
“Nope.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a knowing look. “I have full confidence.”
“In me?”
He winked and patted her shoulder. “In my teaching skills.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ha.”
“Go ahead and wash those tomatoes and the rest of the produce,” he said, cocking his head toward the sink. “I’m going to get everything else set up.”
“Washing vegetables, I can do.” She grabbed a colander and went to work on the tomatoes, limes, cilantro, and peppers.
When she was done, he patted the spot next to him at her rollaway island. “Join me, sous chef.”
He’d grabbed the butcher-block cutting board that she’d bought on impulse at HomeGoods one day just because it looked pretty and set it atop the island along with the knives and some other items he’d gathered from her kitchen. She took her spot next to him and set the bowl of clean produce off to the side.
His arm brushed against hers, the hair tickling her skin, as he grabbed the tomatoes, and goose bumps chased up her arm. “For tacos, you could make traditional salsa, which would involve a blender or a food processor, or you could make pico de gallo, which leaves it chunkier. Tonight, we’ll tackle pico.” He pulled a knife from the block. “For most vegetables, you’re going to use a straight-edged knife, but for soft-skinned things like tomatoes, serrated is better.”
She eyed the pile of tomatoes. “We have to cut each one?”
“Yes. They’re more work, but cherry tomatoes tend to be sweeter than regular ones—unless you stop at one of the roadside stands and find some locally grown Creole tomatoes, which are pretty much the tomatoes all other tomatoes aspire to be.”
