Chapter 20 Weekend Rituals
Weekend Rituals
Claire
The coffee grinder’s low whirl pulled me out of sleep. I didn’t move, waiting for the smell of fresh-brewed coffee to drift in.
Same as every morning.
The night before replayed in flashes. The candles. The way his green eyes caught the light. The soft click when he set his glass down.
The moment he said her name.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to organize my thoughts. We’re just two people sharing an apartment. It’s fine.
The blanket had slipped from my arm; the skin there was cold. I pulled my arm back under. I listened. The grinder stopped, the cupboard door thudded, water poured into the machine.
Routine. Same as always.
Only my chest felt tighter than yesterday. And the coffee would smell exactly the same when I walked into the kitchen… but somehow taste different.
It was a new day. And the same one all over again.
I pushed back the covers and swung my legs over the side. The floor was cool under my feet. I pulled on leggings and a sweater, twisting my hair into a loose knot.
I was just reaching for the door handle when the knock came. Firm. Two beats. I hesitated, palm on the cool metal before turning it.
Liam stood there.
My heart gave a little kick. Okay Brooke, you win. He is a hot goalie.
One hand braced lightly on the frame, the other holding my mug. Steam curled past his knuckles.
He didn’t move right away. Just held it out, his gaze fixed on mine.
“Coffee’s ready,” he said.
I took it without looking away. My fingers closed around the mug, the heat seeping into my hands.
“Thanks.”
He stayed where he was, weight shifted onto one leg, still watching. I lifted the mug, took a sip, and met his eyes over the rim.
Silence. “Do you like osso buco?” he asked.
The question landed so far from where my brain was, it took me a second. “The… braised veal thing?”
His mouth tipped in a half-smile. “That’s the one.”
“Sure,” I said slowly, still trying to catch up. “Why?”
“There’s a great butcher not too far away.” He shifted his weight, the fabric of his T-shirt pulling across his chest as he moved. “Thought you might want to come with me.”
I blinked. “To… buy veal?”
His grip on the doorframe shifted, knuckles tightening for a beat before easing. He glanced down, then back up.
“Well, you know, to continue your culinary education.” The corner of his mouth lifted like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to discuss at my bedroom door.
I took another sip, letting the heat settle against my palms.
We are Roommates. Just roommates.
Still, my mind kept circling back, last night’s candles, his voice saying Nora’s name, and now… shopping for veal?
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
His hand dropped from the frame, fingers flexing once before settling at his side.
His mouth tugged in a small, almost reluctant smile. “Half an hour?”
“Sure.” I said, tucking my hair back.
He gave a single, quick nod and stepped back, and I shut the door before I could think better of it.
I glanced at my planner, but got dressed for our trip to the butcher instead.
The elevator doors slid open. Liam stepped out first, holding the lobby door with his shoulder so I could follow.
Arturo looked up from his post, eyes flicking between us, and I was suddenly aware of how we must look.
“I’ve graduated,” I told him. “From risotto to osso buco. Learning how to pick veal.”
Why am I explaining this to him?
I had no idea.
Liam didn’t say a word, just pressed a hand to the door to hold it open for me.
The air was crisp enough to wake me up faster than the coffee had.
Liam’s hand rested on the small of my back.
“This way,” he said, nodding down the block.
He steered me off the main street, toward a narrow, shadowed alley.
“Liam,” I said slowly. “Where are you taking me?”
He let out a low laugh. “To my butcher.”
“This looks sketchy. You know, the movie scene where everyone yells at the woman not to go.”
“Claire, we’ve been living together for three weeks,” he said, throwing me a look over his shoulder. “If I wanted to pass you off to someone nefarious, I could’ve done it way more easily.”
Living together? Interesting choice of words.
And then, just as I opened my mouth to argue, his fingers wrapped around mine.
“Come on,” he said, drawing me toward the light at the far end of the alley.
The shop was narrow, with glass cases running the length of one wall and hooks gleaming under bright lights. A wave of savory scent hit me, rich, earthy, and nothing like the grocery store back home.
“Morning, Liam,” the butcher called from behind the counter, already reaching for a wrapped cut. “Here for the usual?”
“Not today, Frank,” Liam said, glancing at me before leaning an elbow on the counter. “I’m broadening someone’s horizons. Tonight I am making osso buco.”
Liam edged closer to me, pointing out the thick-cut veal shanks, marbled just enough. “See the bone? That’s where the flavor comes from.”
I squinted. “I thought the flavor came from magic and hours of cooking.”
“That too,” and before I could move, Liam slid a pair of gloves from the counter and held one open. “Here. Try.”
It took me a second to realize he meant for me to put my hand in. I did, and he guided my fingers—carefully, gently—so I could feel the grain of the meat through the thin material.
“Not too firm, not too soft,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that the butcher pretended not to hear. “Perfect.”
I nodded, pulling my hand back before I forgot to breathe. “Right. Perfect.”
He just smiled, turning back to the butcher. “We’ll take two.”
The butcher’s eyes crinkled. “Ah, nothing says romance like osso bucco on a Sunday.”
Not helping Frank.
“Thanks, Frank,” Liam cut in, taking the package. His voice was easy, but I caught the faint curve of a smile as he turned toward the door.
The bell over the butcher’s door gave a last jingle as we stepped out. The air felt sharper than when we walked in.
Without a word, Liam leaned in and tugged my scarf higher, looping it once around my neck. His fingers brushed my jaw.
“Next stop,” he said, already glancing down the block. “We need bread. Can’t have osso buco without it.”
I fell into step beside him, the scarf warm against my skin, aware of the lingering warmth where his hand had been a moment ago.
The elevator doors slid shut, the quiet settling between us.
“Mind if we eat earlier tonight?” Liam asked, pressing the button for our floor. “I’ve got to head out after. Some of the guys are going to the children’s hospital.”
So… we’re still doing dinner.
“Sure,” I said. “Just tell me what time and I can help set the table.”
His gaze flicked over, long enough for me to wonder what he was thinking. “You don’t have to do that, I can handle it.”
Chivalry? But maybe also a little….careful?
“Liam, how can I sneak a taste if I am not in the kitchen getting the table settings?”
He looked amused. “Alright, if it means that much to you, let's divide and conquer. I cook, you set the table.”
“Deal.”
“Do you always get the last word?”
“Yes.”
He just chuckled, shaking his head.
Once the table was set, I curled into the armchair and flipped my book open.
From the kitchen came the steady rhythm of Liam’s cooking, soft clinks, the faint pop of heat under a pan.
The story pulled me under, minutes unspooling, until Liam’s voice cut through. “Dinner’s ready.”
I set the book aside and stepped into the kitchen.
The scent hit me the second I stepped into the kitchen—rich, savory, like something from a restaurant you had to book months in advance.
“This smells incredible,” I said, my eyes drawn to the pot simmering on the stove.
“I’ll bring it over,” Liam said, already reaching for a ladle.
“I can help—”
“Sit,” he said, smiling without looking up.
I lingered, unwilling to give in that easily. “You cooked. I can at least—”
“Claire.” His gaze met mine, steady, almost amused. “Let me bring your dinner to you.”
Something in his tone made me stop arguing. I slipped into my chair, hands curling around the edge of the table, and let him.
I didn’t put these candles out.
Two white tapers burned in crystal holders, their light catching the rim of my wineglass.
Liam set my plate down first, his hand grazing mine before he stepped back. "Smells amazing,” I said. “Wait until you taste it,” he replied, moving around to set his own plate down.
I should’ve started eating, but I watched him instead. The easy way he carried himself, the faint steam curling from his plate, the way his sleeves were still rolled from cooking.
When he finally sat, our knees almost touched under the table.
His gaze caught mine. “Thanks for shifting your evening so we could still eat together.”
“Thank you for showing me how to braise,” I said. “I’ve never done that before.”
The corner of his mouth tipped, pleased. “Eat, before it gets cold.”
I picked up my fork, but what I really wanted was to keep looking at him.
Liam’s fork slowed midair, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You ever notice you always get the last word?”
I looked up from my plate, feigning innocence. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
One brow arched. “Right. How’d that go over with your brother when you two were kids?”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Let’s just say, even though I’m younger, I always acted like the older sibling.”
He leaned back a little, like he was settling in for a story. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, be quiet,” I said, flicking him a look that only made his grin deepen.
“Fine,” I said, setting down my fork. “There was this kid in Nolan’s grade, this was before his growth spurt, who thought it was hilarious to give Nolan a hard time.
I couldn’t exactly confront the kid in the hallway without getting caught, so…
” I leaned in a little, lowering my voice as if the walls might still remember.
“I may have slipped a certain… ‘special’ answer sheet into his locker before a big math test.”
Liam’s eyes lit, and he set his fork down entirely. “Special how?”
“Every answer was wrong,” I said, savoring the memory. “But they looked right. Enough to make him confident.”
He laughed, that low, rough sound that made my chest feel warmer than the wine. “You’re ruthless.”
“Protective,” I corrected, smiling into my glass.
Our eyes met over the table, and for a second neither of us moved.
I tilted my head, still smiling. “So what about you? Were you the overprotective big brother?”
Liam laughed, shaking his head. “Not even close. Maeve never needed protecting, she was tougher than half the guys on my hockey team.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m serious. Once, when we were kids, she was at the rink for figure skating practice, and this guy kept chirping at her from the boards. Next thing I know, she’s coming out of a double axel, ‘accidentally’ veers off, and—” he paused, grinning—“slams him right into the glass. Perfect form.”
I tried to picture it, tiny Maeve, sparkly costume, blades flashing, and burst out laughing. “She checked him? In figure skates?”
“Full body. Dropped him on his butt. And then, this was the best part, she skated off like nothing happened. Hair still perfect. No one even called a penalty.”
Our knees brushed again under the table, and neither of us moved them away.
I shook my head, still laughing. “Sounds like she got the last word.”
“That she did.” His smile deepened just enough to reach his eyes. “I seem to be surrounded by women who like to get the last word.”
I looked away first.