Chapter 4 #3
I shake my head, feeling something tighten in my chest. Something about seeing her empty fridge hits me harder than it should.
I've always been the guy who rushes in to fix things, especially for women like Tally—the ones with the tough exteriors and vulnerable cores.
It scares me how much I want to be the one she leans on, even though I know she'd hate the very thought of needing anyone.
Still, looking at this barren refrigerator, I can't shake the feeling that she really does need someone in her life to care about her. Can that someone be me?
While Tally shifts between ice packs and heated compresses on the couch, I set to work on my signature dish.
The kitchen comes alive as I flatten chicken breasts with quick, practiced strikes, then prepare a filling of tangy goat cheese, wilted spinach, and sweet-tart cranberries kissed with honey.
I roll each breast around the mixture, coat them in fragrant herbs, and sear them in shimmering olive oil before they hit the oven.
Water bubbles in two pots—one for potatoes, another for fresh green beans.
I notice a pristine food processor on her counter, looking suspiciously unused amid evidence of a frozen-dinner lifestyle.
When everything finishes cooking—timing perfectly orchestrated—I transform the potatoes into a cloud of garlicky, herb-flecked comfort.
Minutes later, I'm carrying two steaming plates to the living room, hoping good food might ease her pain better than any compress.
Tally takes a bite of the chicken and closes her eyes.
"Holy shit," she says, licking her lips.
"This is—" She takes another bite, this time with a forkful of the garlic mashed potatoes.
"How the hell are you a doctor? Did you, like, go to culinary school too?
" She stabs at a green bean, dragging it through the mashed potatoes and gravy on her plate before popping it in her mouth.
"The cranberries with the goat cheese? Genius.
And these beans—" She points her fork at me.
"You're wasted in medicine, I swear to god. "
I can't help but smile. "After peeking in your fridge and freezer, I'm thinking you only consider me a great cook because?—"
"Because my culinary hero is a cartoon character on a can? Fair." She flashes a grin. "Fun fact though—Chef Boyardee was actually real. Ettore Boiardi, Italian immigrant. Had this fancy restaurant in Cleveland before he started canning spaghetti."
"Impressive trivia," I say, amused. "Though having a Michelin-star background doesn't exactly elevate those little meat-filled UFOs to gourmet status."
Tally quirks an eyebrow. "What are you now, the food police?"
"Hardly." I shake my head. "Just your average Western medicine guy. We don't do the whole lifestyle counseling thing. Our approach is more 'here's a prescription, good luck.'"
Tally cocks her head. "Shouldn't doctors be all over what their patients eat?"
"We try," I say with a half-smile. "But telling someone to eat broccoli and dust off their exercise equipment usually gets me a 'whatever, Doc, just write the prescription.
' So we adapt. Hence all the medications for conditions that proper diet and exercise could prevent." I shrug. “Besides, I’m only an ER doc. It might not be up to the primary care docs to lecture about diet and exercise, and it’s really not up to ER docs to do that.”
Her fingers brush my forearm, and I swear my skin tingles where she touches. "But you practice what you preach, right?" She settles back against the pillow, those eyes still challenging me.
"Looks like you do too," I say, though I'm puzzled how she maintains that toned physique with what I saw in her kitchen.
"Don't judge my empty fridge," she says. "I do Sweetgreen salads three times a week and Tender Greens on Santa Monica. When I’m working, it’s Zinc Cafe on Mateo.
Plus my daily shake—kale, berries, protein stuff.
Those sad frozen dinners? Just for when tattoo bookings are slow and I'm watching my pennies. "
“Well, good to know that you don’t live on Lean Cuisine,” I teased. “That shit’s full of sodium, you know.”
She finishes her meal, looks at me and says "so what's for dessert?
" Then she raises an eyebrow, and I know what she's getting at.
I lift her into my arms, feeling her weight settle against my chest as I carry her to the bedroom.
Her fingers trace the line of my jaw as I lay her on the bed, her dark hair fanning across the pillow.
When our lips meet, she tastes like the red wine we shared.
I trace the tattoo spiraling down her shoulder, following its path with my mouth until she arches beneath me.
Our clothes find their way to the floor, and I take my time exploring every inch of her, memorizing the sounds she makes when I find a sensitive spot.
We move together, skin against skin, her nails digging into my shoulders as our bodies find their rhythm.
Time dissolves into an exquisite haze of two bodies coming together, again and again, until dawn breaks through the blinds, painting golden stripes across her flushed skin and the sheets beneath us.