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I keep my focus on the cutting board as I chop cilantro and talk to Charlie. Just because I have a degree in nutrition does not mean I’m suddenly a master chef. My dicing skills are slow going. When I find a recipe to try, I normally have to double the prep time to get an accurate idea of how long to plan for.
“If that’s the kind of men you know, you need to up the caliber of people you spend time with.”
Done slicing the tiny, fragrant leaves, I set down my knife and meet Charlie’s stare. He stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, leaning toward me with a pleading expression on his face. Pig wears an almost identical pout, but her focus rests entirely on the stovetop where all the delicious meaty smells waft from.
I’m not giving into either guilt trip.
“I’m serious, Charlie. I’ve got dinner. Just chill out and let me be your sugar momma.”
He grimaces. “Okay, that was funny the first time you said it, but can we erase that term from all future conversations? It’s weirding me out.”
“Yeah. I heard it too. No more sugar momma.” Carefully, I scoop the cilantro off my board and dump the green leaves in a bowl beside my dough. “Still, I’ve been living on my own for over a decade. I’ve never needed more hands in the kitchen. Just because I have a husband doesn’t mean I’m suddenly helpless.”
Charlie absently cracks his knuckles—a sign of agitation I’m beginning to recognize—before tucking his hands in the pockets of those teasingly tempting gray sweatpants.
“I didn’t say youneedhelp. I’m saying I want to help. I hate being useless.”
“I told you—”
“Yeah. The marriage. Sure. But in a day-to-day situation. I need to do more.”
“You walk Pig.”
At the sound of the word, my pup’s ear twitches. But apparently beef is a higher priority than going outside.
“This doesn’t have to be a tally-keeping thing. No points to keep track of. Fake or not, we’re husband and wife. Can’t we just be partners for this next year? Like…” Charlie strolls over to the table, and he’s already picking up the little piece of paper before I realize what he’s doing. “This is the recipe you’re making, right? If I swear I know you can slice cucumbers, can I please cover that task?”
My arms fling out before my body freezes in panic, my heart beating at a frantic rhythm. When Charlie turns and notices my pose, his brow dips with concern.
“Luna? What’s wrong.”
“Put down the recipe.” I hiss the command, animosity stinging through my voice.
Pig whines, and Charlie flinches as if I’ve slapped him. He gently sets the paper back where he found it. When the handwritten recipe settles on the table surface, I can breathe again.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, staring at his feet. “I’ll go hang out in my room.” As he shuffles away, I realize I’m the biggest ass.
Did I just kick a happy puppy? Because it sure feels like it.
My dog stares at me with wide eyes full of innocent worry that only hurts my heart more.
“Charlie!” My call stops him before he can disappear. He waits, his back to me. But maybe that’s better. I don’t open up to people, and right now I need to show a little vulnerability to explain my temporary freak out. “The recipe. It’s my grandmother’s. She wrote it down herself.” I have to clear tightness from my throat before I keep going. “I only have six.”
Charlie faces me, the hurt gone as easy as it arrived. “Six recipes?”
I nod. “I visited her six times since I found her. We made a new dish each time, and she wrote what we did as we did it. She said the recipes were in her hands, and she only remembered them when she cooked them.”
Charlie retraces his steps, approaching me as if I’m a rattlesnake and my tail is buzzing in warning. He has a right to be wary. I sunk my fangs into him only a second ago.
“I’m protective of them.” The paper is plenty sturdy, not like she wrote the steps down on tissue paper, but I can’t help worrying that they’ll disintegrate under the wrong touch and I’ll lose this last bit of her. Of my history.
“I’m sorry. I promise not to touch them again.”
If I were someone who people-pleased, I’d apologize further and claim I overreacted. Instead, I simply say, “I’d appreciate that.”
Charlie leans a shoulder against the wall, looking more handsome than should be allowed as he studies me. “Making the recipe yourself also means a lot to you?”
Perceptive man.
