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“No,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
“Surely, you can stomach dinner with me, Heather. I made it for you.”
“Don’t you mean your chef is making it for you?”
“That’s not what I said.” He breezed by me, utterly unperturbed. “It’s an old family recipe. Sure, I’ve cooked it with the chef because he was so dubious that it couldn’t be improved. Proved him wrong.”
“What is it?” I asked, following him despite myself. My stomach yowled and growled, and I realized I was starving.
“Just my family’s take on lasagna. Handed down from generation to generation. Secret ingredients and all that.”
My stomach tied itself in knots—when was the last time I’d eaten?—as I entered the kitchen and was treated to the delectable aroma in full force. I’d never really taken the time to explore this part of the house because the chef or chef’s assistant always served breakfast, lunch, and the occasional dinner in the dining room. I never had to lift a finger to get Collins fed as there was a staff for that.
This kitchen was state-of-the-art. Everything gleamed—countertops and appliances in utilitarian but sleek stainless steel. Graham had made a small mess on one end of a counter, the innards of tomatoes and other vegetables smeared across the surface, studded with wrappings and utensils and spices. The sink was full of dirty dishes.
“What are you looking for?” Graham asked.
“The can of sauce you used,” I said dismissively. “I’m sure your treasured family recipe comes out of a bottle.”
“You can insult me, Heather, but how dare you insult this recipe and my family’s culinary heritage?” He delivered the admonition sternly, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Everything—sauce included—is made from scratch.”
“Oh, yeah? What about the noodles?”
He pointed at the pasta machine a little farther down the counter, dusted in flour.
“Okay. The cheese?”
“Are you really asking me if I made my own cheese?” He threw his head back and laughed. “You want to know if I’ve grown the oregano, too, don’t you?”
“You’ve given up one of the secret ingredients, I’m sure,” I pointed out. “Your ancestors are going to be coming for you.” I stepped around him and started gathering up some of the debris on the counter. “What a mess.”
“Just leave it,” Graham said. “I gave my staff the weekend off. They’re expecting to clear everything away on Monday.”
“If you can cook dinner, I can certainly clean your kitchen,” I said, snorting at his logic. “If you leave these pots and pans, you’re tripling your staff’s work. That tomato sauce is going to stick.”
“Why are you so desperate to do my dishes?”
“Why do you insist on causing such a mess?” I fired back and belatedly realized we weren’t bickering about dishes at all. “Graham, you just do things and don’t realize how they impact other people—these dishes, the whole nanny situation.”
“I’m not having this discussion on an empty stomach,” Graham said. “By the time I pour some wine, the lasagna will be ready to serve.”
“This might be a conversation best had sober,” I warned him.
“Or it might be a conversation comforted by excellent wine,” he countered before expertly opening a bottle next to two glasses placed on the counter.
“See? There it is again.” Graham didn’t stop pouring. “You’ve already assumed you know what I want and what I’m going to do. I tell you that I don’t want wine, but you pour it anyway. The same goes for everything else—everything you keep doing or assuming even though I tell you not to. You have issues with healthy boundaries, Graham.”
“To healthy boundaries,” he said, clinking one glass against the other before handing me one. “Cheers.”
“You are impossible,” I told him, but I sipped the wine anyway. If he was going to be like this, then I deserved a drink. It was excellent, just like he said it would be, and when he served up two plates of huge, steaming wedges of lasagna, both of us started eating right there and then, perched on two stools at the counter.
“I have a dining room,” he reminded me. “Several, in fact.”
“The kitchen suits me just fine,” I said around a mouthful of hot noodles and savory tomato sauce with just the right amount of spicy heat. “Puts us closer to get refills and seconds.”
“Still think the sauce is store-bought?”
I shrugged, pointing to my mouth and making a grand show of chewing elaborately. I was unwilling to walk that particular insult back.
