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Chapter 17
Brady
Normally, when I get home from work, I go straight to the fridge and drink a beer or two—okay, maybe three. Then I order some pizza, watch ESPN, do sit-ups, watch porn—whatever—because that’s what you do when you’re a single guy.
But today, as soon as I walk into the house after work, I’m smacked in the face with the most awesome smell coming from the kitchen.
Cookedfood? Inmyhouse? That’s a first.
As I turn the corner into the kitchen, I see Izzie standing by the stove. She’s throwing it down, blending shit up. She’s a machine.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out in my best Fred Flintstone voice.
Izzie whirls around, her eyes all wide-eyed before collapsing back into her usual polite, evasive self.
“God, you scared the crap out of me.” She turns her attention back to the stove and starts stabbing broccoli with a fork.
A part of me wants to sneak up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, inhaling her smell. But I’m pretty sure she’d turn around and throw boiling hot oil in my face or something.
“What are you whipping up there?” I keep my distance and lean against the doorway. I might as well play it safe.
“It’s your anti-inflammatory diet.” She throws some chickpeas in a bowl. “Didn’t you get the diet plan I emailed to you?”
Whoops.
“Uh, sure, of course,” I lie.
“I figured you didn’t.” She eyes me accusingly. “So I decided to pick up the ingredients myself. And then once I got here, I figured I might as well cook it, too. You’ll like it. It’s really good.”
Judging by the delicious smell filling the kitchen, I don’t need her to convince me of that.
“Sit down.” She nods toward the dining table. “It’s about done. Liam’s already sitting there, waiting. You can keep him company.”
I walk to the dining room and see Liam slouched in his chair, his head down and focusing on some handheld video game.
“Yo, whatcha playing?” I yank the game out of his hand and hold it high above his head.
“Braaadddyyy!” He stands up on the chair and tries to yank it out of my hand.
“You gotta try harder than that.” I start moving the game all around his head, out of his grasp. He’s jumping and giggling like a fiend, which causes Izzie to shout out, “Cut it out, you two!”
Seconds later, Izzie emerges from the kitchen like someone’s angry mom. I can’t help but laugh at seeing her with her one hand on her hip, the other hand holding a bowl of salad. She’s fucking adorable.
“Sorry,Mom,” I joke, sitting down in my seat. “We’ll behave.”
Izzie sighs and places the bowl on the table. “It’s chickpea salad. Dig in, guys.”
She disappears and comes back with a pan of special anti-inflammatory meatballs and broccoli made with ginger and turmeric.
As she explains the food, it all sounds like a foreign language to me, so I tune her out and just start shoving things into my mouth. Hey, food is food, right?
As we all sit around awkwardly chewing, I decide to break the silence.
“So, Liam, you like football?”
The kid practically chokes on his food as he drops his fork and looks up with me with excited eyes.
“Yes, I love it! It’s my favorite sport. My whole family loves it, too!”
