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“Do you have a scrubber thing?”
“Under the sink. How long do they take?”
“About an hour once I— Crap, I’m supposed to preheat the oven. See? Supervision. Jesus, there’s a lot of knobs on this thing.”
Because it amused him, he let her figure it out while he chose a bottle of wine. “I have white if you’d rather.”
“No, the Cab’s more than fine. There! Did it. I think. I’m already feeling the flop sweat.”
While she scrubbed the potatoes, Howl sat beside her, head pressed to her leg. Miles went to the door, opened it. Said, “Out.”
“He’s not bothering me.”
“He needs to patrol.”
“He does?”
“It’s his idea, not mine.” After he closed the door, he turned to her. “Are you going to say this meal requires a salad or a green vegetable?”
“I’m absolutely not going to say that.”
“I’m starting to think you may be, almost, the perfect woman.”
He set a glass of wine on the counter beside her.
“I like salads and green vegetables fine, but I’m currently obsessing about potatoes. I don’t have room for more than that. I need to use that cutting board and one of those knives you have on that magnetic strip like a restaurant kitchen.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Then I need the herbs and spices and olive oil and a baking sheet. And scissors or shears so I can cut some of the herbs out there. He actually looks like he’s patrolling.”
“Because he is.” He set out a baking sheet, kitchen shears, and pointed to the olive oil dispenser, then to a cabinet. “Spices.”
He watched her cut the potatoes into wedges. Amused all over again at the intensity of her focus, he leaned back on the counter, sipped his wine.
He enjoyed his Sunday solitude, he really enjoyed it. But he found it surprisingly pleasant to have her in his kitchen.
She muttered something about garlic, so he pointed again.
When she went out for the herbs, Howl interrupted his routine to race to her so they had another round of mutual admiration.
She came back in, chopped things up. Pulled more things out of the spice cupboard. Dumped things on the potatoes, used a wooden spoon to stir and coat. Grabbed the pepper mill, added that—obviously forgotten, as she stirred it all up again.
“Okay, I think I’ve got it. Anyway, here goes.”
She put the baking sheet in the oven, set the timer.
“You said an hour. That’s thirty minutes.”
“Because that’s when I’m supposed to stir it all up again. I don’t know why, and don’t care. It’s just what I’m supposed to do.”
She grabbed her wine, said, “Whew!” And drank.
“Did you have kitchen duty in your resort training?”
“Oh yeah.”
“That’s why yours is so organized. I skipped kitchen training. My mother cooked. When my father was deployed, we ordered in or went out about half the time. Otherwise, dinner at seven sharp, and there would be green veg.”
