29. Atticus
Chapter 29
Atticus
I step into the penthouse, the weight of the day's meetings lifting from my shoulders when I cross the threshold. The sound of laughter drifts from the kitchen, catching me off guard. It's been too long since I've heard that sound here.
Loosening my tie, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. The scent of garlic and herbs wafts through the air, rich and inviting. I roll up my sleeves as I make my way toward the kitchen, curiosity piqued.
The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks. Lemon and Ezra are at the island, flour dusting their clothes and smudged on their cheeks. Lemon's hair is piled in a messy bun, wisps escaping to frame her flushed face. She's wearing an apron I've never seen before, the black fabric snug against her soft curves.
Ezra stands behind her, his hands guiding hers as they knead a lump of dough. His usually perfectly styled hair is disheveled, and there's a smear of tomato sauce on his forearm. They're both laughing, caught up in their own little world.
Something tightens in my chest at the domesticity of the scene. It's achingly beautiful, and for a moment, I feel like an intruder in my own home. I sigh because I can’t deny how much I fucking enjoy seeing it, seeing them like this.
Which makes me sound like a hypocrite since I freaked out after their breakfast domestic scene weeks ago.
Lemon spots me first, her eyes widening slightly. "You're home." She wipes her hands on her apron, leaving floury streaks. "Can I get you something to drink?"
I shake my head, unable to find my voice for a moment. She looks so alive, so different from the sullen girl who's been haunting my apartment for weeks. My gaze shifts to Ezra, who's watching me with that knowing smirk of his.
"Looks like you two have been busy," I finally manage, my voice gruffer than I intended.
"Ezra's teaching me to make pasta from scratch," Lemon explains, her excitement palpable. "We went to this amazing market today and?—"
She cuts herself off, suddenly uncertain. I realize I'm still standing in the doorway, probably looking like a disapproving asshole. With effort, I soften my expression and step into the kitchen.
"Show me," I say, moving to stand behind them both.
Lemon's shoulders tense for a moment before relaxing. She turns back to the dough, Ezra's hands once again covering hers. I place my hands on their waists, feeling the warmth of their bodies through the thin fabric of their clothes.
"Like this," Ezra murmurs, demonstrating the kneading technique. "You want to really work the gluten, get it nice and elastic. "
I watch as Lemon's small hands press into the dough, her movements becoming more confident under Ezra's guidance.
Lemon's brow furrows in concentration, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows. Ezra's fingers flex, guiding her motions with practiced ease. The air is thick with the scent of yeast and flour, mingling with the earthy aroma of fresh herbs scattered across the counter.
"You're getting it," Ezra encourages, his voice low and warm. "Feel how it's changing?"
Lemon nods, a smile tugging at her lips. "It's smoother now, more…I don't know, alive?"
"Exactly," Ezra praises. "That's the gluten developing."
I step back, drinking in the scene. The late afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting a golden glow over the kitchen.
"I think we could all use a drink," I announce, moving toward the wine fridge. I select a crisp Pinot Grigio, its pale gold matching the sunlight. The cork releases with a satisfying pop, and I pour three generous glasses.
"Here," I say, setting the glasses on a clear spot on the counter. "You've earned it."
"Thanks," she says softly, reaching for a glass. Her fingers leave floury prints on the stem.
"I'm going to change," I tell them, suddenly desperate for a moment to collect myself. "Carry on with your culinary adventure."
I retreat to the bedroom, shedding my outside persona. The tie, the pressed shirt, the polished shoes. I pull on a pair of soft lounge pants and a well-worn t-shirt, reveling in the comfort.
When I return to the kitchen, barefoot and feeling more human, Lemon and Ezra are feeding sheets of pasta through a hand-crank machine. Lemon squeals with delight as a perfect ribbon of fettuccine emerges.
"Look!" she exclaims, holding up the strand. "I made this!"
Her joy is infectious, and I find myself smiling. "Impressive," I say, meaning it. "How was the market? I didn't know Ezra was planning an outing."
Lemon's face lights up, and suddenly she's talking a mile a minute. Her hands gesture animatedly as she describes the vibrant stalls, the colorful produce, the people they met. Ezra chimes in occasionally, filling in details or correcting her pronunciation of Italian words.
"…and then we met this woman, Ava, who had the most amazing herbs," Lemon gushes. "She gave me some lemon balm to try. Oh! I think I still have it in my pocket!"
She wipes her floury hands on her apron before digging into her jeans pocket, producing a slightly crumpled sprig. The citrusy scent fills the air as she holds it out to me.
"Here, smell," she insists, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
I lean in, inhaling the fragrant herb as my nose touches her hand. I move my lips just enough to press against the soft skin of her wrist before pulling back.
"It smells good," I murmur, my eyes never leaving her face. "But not as good as you."
A faint blush colors her cheeks, and she tucks the sprig back into her pocket.
I take a sip of my wine, savoring the crisp flavor as I lean against the counter, content to watch them work. Lemon's enthusiasm is infectious, her joy palpable as she masters each new technique Ezra shows her.
"So," Lemon says, glancing up at Ezra. "How long has the market been around? It seems like such an institution. "
Ezra's expression shifts, a shadow passing over his features. "Actually, about a year ago, we almost lost it."
Lemon's hands still on the pasta machine. "What? Why?"
"City bureaucracy bullshit," Ezra explains, his tone bitter. "They wouldn't renew the permits for any of the vendors. Said the market didn't meet some new zoning regulations or some crap like that."
"That's awful!" Lemon exclaims, her brow furrowing. "What happened? I mean, obviously it's still there, but..."
Ezra's eyes flick to me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, that's when Atticus here did what he does best."
I straighten up, suddenly very aware of Lemon's gaze on me. Ezra continues, "He bought the entire fucking street."
Lemon's jaw drops. "The whole street? Just like that?"
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "It was a sound investment. The area has potential for development."
"Bullshit," Ezra laughs. "You did it because you knew how much that market means to me."
Lemon's looking at me now, her eyes wide and searching. I can almost see the gears turning in her head, reevaluating what she thinks she knows about me.
"So now," Ezra continues, "no one has an issue getting their permit. Atticus made sure of that."
There's a moment of silence, broken only by the soft sounds of the pasta crank. Lemon's still staring at me, an unreadable expression on her face. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I'm not used to.
"That was really kind of you," Lemon finally says, her voice soft.
I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the praise. "It was a business decision, nothing more. "
But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true. Yes, the property was a solid investment. But the look on Ezra's face when I told him I'd secured the market's future. That was worth more than any monetary gain.
Ezra and Lemon turn their attention back to the pasta, working in comfortable silence. I watch as they finish cooking; the kitchen filled with mouthwatering aromas. When the sauce is ready, Ezra gestures Lemon over to a clear spot on the counter.
"Now for the fun part," he says with a grin. "Plating."
Ezra demonstrates how to twirl the pasta into elegant nests. Lemon's face is a picture of concentration as she mimics his movements, her small hands working deftly.
"Like this?" she asks, holding up her first attempt.
"Perfect," Ezra praises, and I have to agree. The pasta sits in a tight coil, sauce dripping enticingly over the edges.
They work quickly, plating three servings with a level of artistry that would put most restaurants to shame. Lemon adds a final flourish of fresh herbs, her eyes sparkling with pride.
"Alright," I say, setting down my empty glass. "Let's eat."
Ezra and Lemon gather up the plates and various accompaniments, ferrying them to the dining room. I follow, pausing to grab the wine bottle and fresh glasses.
I set down the wine and glasses before moving to the sideboard where I keep the candles.
With practiced ease, I light the tall tapers, their flames adding a flickering warmth to the room. The scent of beeswax mingles with the aroma of the food, creating a night of intimacy and indulgence.
Lemon stands uncertainly by the table, her eyes darting between the place settings. I move behind her, my hand settling on the small of her back as I guide her to her seat.
"Allow me," I murmur, pulling out her chair. She sinks into it with a soft "thank you," her cheeks flushed.
I do the same for Ezra, who shoots me an amused look as he sits. Finally, I take my own seat at the head of the table, surveying the spread before us.
The pasta looks even more impressive in the candlelight; the sauce glistening invitingly. A basket of crusty bread sits to one side, still warm from the oven. A simple salad of mixed greens completes the meal, its vinaigrette adding a sharp balance to the rich pasta.
"This looks amazing," I say, genuinely impressed. "You've both outdone yourselves."
Lemon beams at the praise, while Ezra affects a casual shrug. But I can see the pleasure in his eyes.
"Thank you both for this," I say, raising my glass in a toast. "I appreciate the effort you've put into making such a meal."
Lemon's eyes light up at the compliment, and Ezra gives a satisfied nod. We clink glasses and dig in, the first bite of pasta melting on my tongue. The sauce is rich and complex, perfectly balanced with the al dente noodles. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the flavors.
"Goddamn, this is good," I mutter, reaching for another forkful.
Lemon practically glows with pride. Her cheeks flushed pink in the candlelight. She takes delicate bites, clearly relishing every mouthful of her creation. Ezra, on the other hand, twirls his pasta with practiced ease, managing to look effortlessly elegant even as he shovels food into his mouth.
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The only sounds are the clink of cutlery and the occasional appreciative murmur.
As we near the end of the meal, I clear my throat. "Lemon," I begin, feeling uncharacteristically hesitant. "I was thinking…would you like to join Ezra and me in the living room after dinner? We could watch something on TV."
The words feel clumsy in my mouth. It's not an offer I've made before. Usually, after dinner, I retreat to my office or the living room alone, CNN droning in the background while I work. But tonight it feels different.
Lemon's fork pauses halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. "Really?" she asks, her voice soft and uncertain.
I nod, suddenly feeling exposed. "If you'd like," I add, trying to sound casual.
Ezra's watching the exchange with interest, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He knows how out of character this is for me.
"I'd love to," Lemon says, her voice stronger now. She sets down her fork, reaching for her wineglass. "What should we watch?"
"Whatever you want," I find myself saying. "You choose."