“People cook stuff all the time. What in the hell did I do wrong?” Julian mumbled to himself as he looked at the watery potatoes and the burned pot roast.
Shit! He was hopeless in the kitchen. He couldn’t even feed his own wife.
He’d watched his mother cook as a child. Now he wished he had paid more attention. Lifting the spoon, he noticed that the mashed potatoes were actually more like soup, and they were readily dripping from the spoon.
“What are you doing?” Kristin asked curiously as she entered the room, dressed in a pair of black yoga pants and a sweater.
Her hair was still damp and starting to curl, and Julian couldn’t stop himself from staring. Every time she entered a room, he felt like somebody was slugging him in the chest. “Trying to make dinner,” he answered flatly. “I fucked it up.”
Kristin moved next to him and stirred the potatoes and glanced at the pot roast, which now looked like a shriveled black mass of something completely inedible. “My mom used to make this incredible roast with dumplings. I found her cookbook when I was going through some stuff I had in storage. It didn’t turn out the same.”
“That?” She pointed at the pathetic piece of meat. “That used to be a roast?”
Julian could tell she was trying not to laugh as she covered her mouth with her hand.
“It was,” he answered sadly.
“Oh, Julian,” she said kindly as she burst out laughing. “Cooking takes patience and practice. I already knew you couldn’t cook. You didn’t have to even try. I like to cook.”
“You worked all day,” he protested.
“And you didn’t?” she retorted, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“I did. But I was home and not on my feet all day. Being married to me isn’t supposed to make you work harder.” He’d actually wanted to make her life easier. Fuck it. He was a billionaire. He could hire somebody to make them meals.
“I’ve always cooked for myself, even when I had to go to Shamrock’s. I always made something for myself before I started work. I don’t mind.”
Julian was alarmed as he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She sniffled and wiped away the wayward tear, and then another as she looked at him with a sweet smile he’d never seen before.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because I think this is the nicest thing anyone has ever tried to do for me. Thank you.”
He didn’t have a clue why she was thanking him for screwing up their dinner. But he didn’t mind the affectionate look she was giving him. “I’ll hire somebody.”
“No, you will not,” she told him adamantly. “My kitchen. I cook.”
Julian held his breath, wondering if she knew she’d just taken ownership of his home as her own. He released the air slowly, realizing she didn’t even notice as she started moving things around, tossing the bad food and cleaning up so she could start fresh.
He helped her by loading the dishwasher. “I can learn,” he offered. “Or I could just use the damn microwave.”
She stopped what she was doing, moved up to him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Just the fact that you were willing to try makes me happy,” she told him with a contented sigh.
Julian slipped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her hair. “Why?”
“Because nobody has ever cared enough to try to please me like that.”
“I can think of better ways to make you happy,” he admitted eagerly. He might not be able to cook, but he had other . . . skills.
“Trying to make dinner is enough for now,” she said in a hushed voice as she laid her head on his shoulder.
Inhaling deeply, Julian savored her sweet, violet scent and the feel of her soft body in his arms. “I’ll figure it out eventually,” he promised. He wasn’t going to leave his wife with all the hard work.
She leaned back to look at him. “I’d love to look at your mom’s cookbook. I love collecting new recipes, and some of the old ones are the best.”
“It’s yours,” he agreed immediately.
“Do you have pictures of your mom and dad?”
“I do. Micah has more than I do, but my parents were both picture nuts. They loved taking family pictures just about anywhere we went.” He hadn’t pulled the photos out since his parents had died.
“Can I see them, or does it still hurt too much?” she asked softly as she put a palm to his cheek in a comforting gesture.
It would hurt, but for Kristin, he’d pull them out of their hiding place. It was time. “I’ll find them.”
She stroked his jaw. “No hurry. I’d just like to see them someday when you’re ready.”
He nodded. “I’m ready,” he affirmed.
“Let me get us something to eat and we’ll look.” She backed up and starting moving through the kitchen, looking completely at home in her environment.
Julian played assistant, helping her put together an edible dinner before he pulled out the pictures of his family.
They spent the rest of the evening talking about his childhood, reliving happy memories of his parents and brothers while they were all still living at home.
Strangely, once Julian had started talking, he couldn’t stop.