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Astrid turned her gaze up at me. I felt the weight of her full attention. She slid her hand in mine, lacing her fingers. It sent a pang of longing through me—the desire for such a gesture to mean more between us.
Any time she was close, that need to pull her into me until we were so tightly wound up in each other we might fuse overwhelmed my logic and control. Whenever she was gone, even for a short while, I felt lost—like a piece of me was missing. And with her like this with me, I could get lost in her quiet comfort, and be the happiest man alive.
“Talk to me,” she said.
My lips twisted. “I’m not sure what to say. They’re bittersweet feelings. I remember the good times and wish there’d been more. I wish my dad would cook these recipes again, but at the same time, I’m glad he doesn’t. I want to make one, but I’m afraid reality won’t be as good as my memories.”
Astrid squeezed my hand. “It probably won’t be the same.”
My gut twisted. I knew she was right, but I really didn’t want to hear the truth, either.
“It won’t be the same—not because your memory is better than reality, but because she isn’t the one making it.” Astrid offered a kind smile. “No dish is one-hundred percent the same between chefs. They all have their own technique and flair to it. So what you make won’t be the same as what she made. That doesn’t make it worse or better, and it definitely doesn’t alter the memories you cherish.”
I gazed down at this perfect, beautiful woman. She always knew what to say to me.
Without breaking eye contact, I lifted her hand and pressed my lips to her skin. “Thank you.”
She smiled and nodded, pink tinting her cheeks.
After allowing my gaze to linger on her a moment longer, I turned back to the book. “I don’t want to make this one. I know it’s a more traditional recipe, so it’d be great to try and make, but I know we don’t have any more rabbit left. And we definitely don’t have duck.”
My mouth twitched. “And this one was their dish together. I don’t want to touch that memory with my own just yet.”
I flipped the page to a variant of the dish. “This one is a more commonly made one, and besides the chicken, which we can leave out of Sean’s portion, it’s a safe dish to make for everyone, I think.”
Sean was a pescatarian, making it sometimes tedious offering a wide range of meals for everyone without having to make multiple dishes. My father didn’t mind since he enjoyed cooking for everyone, no matter their varied needs. And it helped that Sean was a generous man, and donated more than he needed to allow us to cater to his needs, as well as others here.
“Aya, does Tyr have a seafood allergy?” Astrid called up.
“No, you’re good.”
It would be better to ask him directly to be sure, especially since the two had made it clear they hadn’t seen each other in a long time, so food tolerances could have changed, but Tyr had been a bit more reclusive today than yesterday. We suspected he needed time to process. I wanted to know what this family issue was between Aya and him, but neither seemed ready to talk about it yet, so my curiosity would have to wait a little longer.
If he couldn’t have this, we’d work something out.
“I want to cook this with you,” I said to Astrid.
She blinked. “Are you sure you want me to cook with you? I know I make a mean salted buttered pasta, but I think this might be a bit too advanced for me.”
She pointed to one of the steps. “I mean, making our own fish stock sounds cool and all, but…”
I laughed. Astrid could do a lot of things, but cooking wasn’t a skill she’d put a lot of points into for her character build. “I’m sure I want no one else making memories with me.”
“Gag!” Aya shouted. “You can use a better line than that. Amp up the charm. Use that sexy voice to melt her panties! C’mon, I want to hear you trying.”
I rolled my eyes, and Astrid laughed, the pink on her cheeks deepening.
We went about collecting the ingredients for both the fish stock and main dish. I popped on some traditional music, like my parents had when they cooked.
“Should I break out the candles?” Aya called down.
It was my turn to laugh while Astrid rolled her eyes. “Will you stop?”
“Can’t, ship has already set sail.”
“Well, I’m telling the navigator she’s plotting the wrong course.”
“Or you could trust me, and you’d be having the time of your life,” Aya said in a sing-song voice.
