“Six,” Kara breathed.
“—and the promise of work in her uncle’s bakery. Best baklava you could ever hope to taste.” He closed his eyes a moment, as if imagining taking a bite from the Greek dessert. That moment of pure delight made her want to reach for him.
“So your very much Greek yaya taught you to cook . . . Italian food.” She smiled as he raised a brow. “Come on, it’s funny.”
“Much to my yaya’s dismay, I actually don’t care for Greek food. Or most of it,” he added, and she could tell he was thinking of baklava again. “But the basics of cooking remain the same, regardless of the dish’s origins. She bakes like a dream, and is a pretty good cook, too. Taught my mother, who is not Greek, a few things. They’re tight, which is pretty cool since I know what the stereotype about Greek mamas and their sons can be. But Yaya just assumes everyone wants to be a part of the family, and treats them like it. Everyone gets fed until they can’t do anything but roll away from the table. If you can eat, you can be family.”
“She sounds awesome.” The pang of longing hit her harder than she expected. That family connection, his obvious love for them, and the fact that Zachary would never have that with either set of grandparents.
“I’m lucky to have her. We all are. She is the definition of the word ‘matriarch.’ You’d love her.”
He said it casually, but it brought her back to the purpose of the dinner. “Graham—”
“Dinner’s ready.” Cutting her off, he brought the garlic bread from the oven, and it smelled divine. “Could you set the table? I tossed some silverware and cups over there, but didn’t get a chance to make order out of it.”
She set it quickly, pleased to see he’d given them simple tumblers instead of wineglasses. No alcohol for her when she’d be driving home soon. Probably none for him, either, given his workout schedule. She filled both their glasses with ice water, and when she returned to the table she found he’d already plated her food and had it waiting. The heaping pile of spaghetti topped with spiced red sauce and a few meatballs was about double what she could really eat. But she didn’t complain, merely sat down and waited for him.
“Okay, need anything else?” he asked as he set the salt and pepper shakers in the middle. “I’m not really used to eating at the table. I’m more of a ‘sandwich on the couch with a paper towel’ guy.”
She tsked, and watched with amusement as he blushed. “I’m kidding, Graham. I get it. When Zach’s gone, and I can just get away with eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, I totally do. It’s the perk of being an adult.”
“Yeah.” Nodding in agreement, he twirled some pasta over his fork. “Good point. It’s an adult perk. How’s Zach today?”
“You ask about him,” she said suddenly, leaning an elbow on the table. “It’s so new to me that anyone does.”
He blinked, letting his fork drop to the plate. “I . . . what?”
“I’ve dated,” she said, deciding to forge on. “I’m not a nun. Well, obviously,” she added with a little laugh. “I’ve tried very hard to not use being a single mother as a reason to push men away. I caught myself trying at the start, but that was more logistical than emotional, because I was just too tired to date. For the simple purpose of survival, men were not on my radar for the first few years.”
One had been, and look where that had gotten her . . .
“You don’t have to tell me all this.” Graham laid a hand on her forearm, thumb rubbing a circle under her wrist, where her pulse beat. “I didn’t ask to pry your life story out of you.”
“Of course you didn’t.” She picked up her fork—which forced him to let go—and speared a bite of broccoli. “I’m telling you, so you understand where we stand.”
His eyes turned stormy, but he retracted his own hand and nodded. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this, but go ahead.”
Like it or not, here it comes.
*
GRAHAM listened while Kara explained that dating hadn’t been a priority, but she’d tried it on occasion. And how the men she’d dated basically ignored Zach’s existence.
Idiots, he thought, but said nothing. When he stabbed a piece of meatball a bit too hard, sending his fork tines screeching against the plate beneath, he winced and looked over at her. Kara’s mouth was a little open, garlic bread halfway there, frozen, as she watched him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, popping the bite into his mouth. “Keep going.”
“I made the choice to not let Zach meet any of them, at least not at first. My thought was I’d be sure the guy was important before we went there. But they didn’t seem to care if it ever happened. It was as if they only wanted me. I never got far enough with any of them to see how they reacted to Zach. Eventually it stopped being an issue.”
Because she’d stopped putting herself out there. He could see it.