Chapter 4 #2
This was the first time the two of them had been in the same room in three weeks, and just the sight of her pretty smile was enough to weaken his resolve.
Mila glanced at the clock. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to be home early. “Well,” she started, gesturing toward the tray. “All that’s left is to put those on the cooling rack. I’ll leave you in charge of that, Sadie, and I’ll get out of y’all’s hair.”
“Aw,” Sadie whined. “Don’t leave yet. Please! You were going to check my chain stitch and make sure I counted right.”
“We can do that tomorrow. Promise,” Mila said, clearly in a hurry to make her escape.
He hated that he’d made her so uncomfortable that she didn’t even want to be around him. “Don’t rush out on my account.”
Mila glanced his direction, her gaze holding his for just a moment, before those gorgeous long lashes lowered shyly. This woman would be the death of him.
“Maybe you could stay for dinner,” Sadie added. “Dad took out chicken and…well…” His daughter, the little minx, shot him a look that proved she didn’t have much faith he’d produce anything edible.
Ever since tasting Mila’s beef stew, Boone had decided to include fewer processed foods in their diets, buying more fresh vegetables and meat. So far, that experiment had been a great big bust.
Given the sly smile that passed between Sadie and Mila, it was obvious his daughter had shared just how bad his attempts at cooking had been.
“What were you planning to do with the chicken?” Mila asked.
“I looked up a recipe for chicken parmesan. I’ve got all the ingredients. There’s more than enough if you’d like to join us.” Boone silently cursed himself the moment he issued the invitation. Seeing Mila in passing was one thing, but spending an entire evening with her was another.
“I really don’t want to impose,” she said, and he could tell she was searching for some excuse to leave.
“You aren’t,” Sadie insisted. “Please stay. Please?”
Mila looked toward him, as if seeking permission. The simple glance was enough to send too much blood to his dick.
He smiled. “We’d love for you to stay.”
What in the sweet motherfuck was wrong with him? She was ready to leave, so why was he stopping her?
“I’ll stay on one condition.”
“What condition?” Boone asked.
“You let me help with the cooking.”
Sadie jumped up and down. “Deal!”
Boone chuckled. “Fine. Why don’t you two do that crochet thing you planned while I go get showered and changed out of my work clothes?”
Mila nodded, following Sadie to her bedroom.
The two of them climbed onto Sadie’s bed, their heads bent together over the scarf Sadie was crocheting.
He watched them for a moment, touched by the patient attention Mila gave his daughter.
And while he hated that Lena was creeping into his thoughts, he couldn’t help but feel sad that Sadie hadn’t received the same attentiveness from her own mother.
Forcing himself to look away, Boone walked into his room, closing the door behind him.
Pruning and mulching was dirty work, so he stripped off his clothes, dumping them into the hamper, then took a shower.
Ordinarily, he took a nice long hot one, letting the steam ease his aching muscles.
Today, he opted for a shorter, chillier one, using it to cool down his libido.
Once he was dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he returned to the great room to find Mila pulling ingredients out of his refrigerator. Glancing into Sadie’s room, he could see she was still on the bed, her hands working with the colorful yarn.
“I feel bad inviting you to dinner then making you cook. You really don’t have to,” he insisted, walking over to take the chicken, cheese, and mushrooms out of her hands to place on the counter.
“That’s okay. I love cooking. The kitchen is my happy place.”
“Even so,” he started.
“Chicken parm is one of my favorite dinners. I can teach you how to make it if you want. It’s pretty simple, really.”
Boone grumbled, “I can see Sadie’s been telling tales about my cooking.”
Mila laughed softly, and the cold shower Boone had taken was suddenly a distant memory. “Not really. She just mentioned that you’ve been trying to make different stuff since moving here.”
“And burning most of it,” he admitted. “I’ve taken to keeping a large supply of soup and cereal on hand for nights when disaster strikes.”
Mila grimaced. “Cereal isn’t dinner.”
Boone chuckled. “It is in the Hansen household.”
“What things did you make before moving here?”
Boone reached into the fridge for a beer, lifting it to see if she wanted one.
Mila nodded, so he uncapped a couple bottles of Rain or Shine IPA and handed one to her.
Leaning against the counter, he took a long swig and felt his shoulders relax.
This was his favorite time of day. Right after work and a shower, nothing but a quiet night ahead of him.
Somehow having Mila here made it just a little bit better.
“I’m a regular Julia Child,” he joked. “King of the microwave. Sadie and I tend to eat prepared foods like those tubs of pulled pork, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, shit like that. Sadie’s favorite meal is yellow dinner.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Chicken tenders, Tator Tots, and a can of corn.”
Mila didn’t bother to hide her wince. “So much processed food.”
“Yeah. I know. That’s why I decided I should start making more of an effort. I will say that once a week, we do a little fine dining.”
“What’s that involve?”
Boone couldn’t tell if Mila was grimacing or grinning. Probably both.
“Spaghetti—jarred sauce and boxed noodles—or frozen lasagna.”
“Yikes.”
Boone laughed. “It’s not that bad, really. It’s why I figured I could handle chicken parmesan. It’s really just spaghetti with a piece of chicken on top.”
“Well,” Mila said, walking to the sink and washing her hands. “It sounds like we have our work cut out for us.”
Boone sipped his beer, watching as Mila grabbed her cellphone from the pocket of her winter coat, hanging on a hook by the front door.
Waving it at him, she said, “Cooking music.”
He tilted his head, amused. “I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”
Mila didn’t reply. Instead, she pulled up Spotify and started playing a familiar old tune, “Amie,” by Pure Prairie League.
“That’s a good one.”
“Aunt Claire always listens to seventies music when we’re cooking together. Doobie Brothers, Steve Miller Band, Bob Seger—I love it all.”
The sound of music pulled Sadie out of her room, and she joined them in the kitchen. Cooking had always been a solitary thing for him, as his style of cooking didn’t require much effort.
Boone was pleased when his daughter asked Mila if she could help.
“Absolutely. You’re on salad duty.” Mila returned to the refrigerator, rummaging around and handing things out to Sadie, who stood next to her. “Here’s lettuce, a tomato, and carrots.” She stood up, looking at him. “No cucumber?”
He shook his head, making a mental note to add it to his grocery list. He wasn’t sure what the hell he’d do with a cucumber, but it was obvious she was disappointed. Boone was strangely bothered that he couldn’t provide something she wanted.
He had to shut that idea down. Hard.
“No problem. This is enough to make a decent salad. Do you have croutons?”
Again, Boone had to shake his head.
“Excellent. Gives us an excuse to make homemade ones,” she replied with a cheery smile—and the croutons he’d mentally added to the list just got deleted.
She’d already spotted the couple loaves of crusty bread he had on the counter.
If Boone had one vice, it was bread. Toast with butter and jam was his favorite snack, so he always had a few loaves of sourdough bread from the grocery store on hand.
Mila held up one of the loaves. “We can use the rest of the loaf for garlic bread, if you’d like.”
Homemade croutons and garlic bread?
Yeah. This was why Boone had been skipping Sunday dinners. Too many more of Mila’s meals, and all the willpower in the world wouldn’t be able to keep him away from her.
Sadie carried the salad fixings to the island and started peeling carrots.
“You and I can prepare the chicken,” Mila said, stepping closer.
Boone drew in a quiet breath. She smelled like sunshine and cinnamon.
For the next twenty minutes, she talked him through the steps in preparing the chicken, pounding it flat, then dipping it in flour, eggs, and breadcrumbs. While he worked on that, she opened the jar of spaghetti sauce, crinkling her nose in distaste.
“Let me guess, you make your sauce from scratch,” he mused.
She nodded. “I do. I keep a vegetable garden going most of the year. This past year’s tomato harvest was bountiful, so I canned it a few different ways.
Sauce, salsa, whole and diced, even tried sun-drying some for the first time.
The next time you get a craving for spaghetti, let me know and I’ll bring you a jar of my sauce to try. ”
“We like salsa too,” Sadie chimed in.
“Donut.” Boone started to chastise his daughter, but Mila merely laughed.
“I’ll bring you a couple jars of that too. I seriously have tons.”
Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock & Roll” started playing and Boone was amused when both Sadie and Mila began dancing in place.
When Sadie did a spin, he was reminded of when she was a little girl, no more than four or five.
He’d gotten her a yellow princess dress for her birthday, and she insisted on him playing the Beast to her Belle, giggling at the way the skirt twirled around her.
Boone had spent the better part of the past summer and fall trying—and failing—with his daughter in every regard.
Somewhere in the middle of last June, he’d become the villain of her life story, the one who made her miserable, who always said no, who didn’t understand her.
It killed him because for most of Sadie’s life, she’d been a daddy’s girl, the two of them wrapped around the other’s little finger. He’d missed the closeness, the fun.