6. Piper and Tristan in the Kitchen
Chapter six
Piper and Tristan in the Kitchen
“Shall we prepare dinner, Miss Monroe?”
"Who's the cook?"
"I am. Mrs. MacLeod is off this evening from cooking duties."
I blink. "You can cook?"
He says nothing as he leads me out of the library. I follow him down another corridor.
The kitchen is every bit as unexpected as the library. Huge. Stone floors. A long wooden table scarred by generations of use. Copper pots hanging above a large island. Fresh herbs growing on the windowsill.
A loaf of bread cooling beneath a linen towel. It smells heavenly.
I stop in the doorway.
"This..." I shake my head. "...is not what I expected."
"So you've mentioned."
"I expected frozen dinners or bachelor survival food.”
“Never!”
Murphy wanders in, sniffs the air enthusiastically, and immediately stations himself beside Tristan with the unwavering confidence of a dog who knows exactly where dinner originates.
"Oh, honestly."
"He has excellent instincts."
"He has excellent greed."
I watch Tristan move around the kitchen. I admit it’s fun to watch him, this elegant strong-looking man. One pan. Fresh vegetables. Butter. Herbs. His sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Strong hands moving with practiced confidence. It's strangely ... hypnotic.
I lean against the old farmhouse sink.
"So you live here alone? No wife or family."
"No one except for the staff."
"For how long?"
"A considerable while."
"And somewhere during that considerable while..." I gesture toward the chopping board. "...you became a remarkably good cook. I suppose takeout isn't a big option here. In the US, we have Uber Eats, takeout and lots of choice even in small towns...."
"I see..."
"I think you would have been insufferable in school."
He looks genuinely puzzled. "Why?"
"You'd have gotten perfect grades."
"Not always."
"You'd have been captain of something."
"Rugby..."
"You'd have politely corrected professors. And every girl on campus would have been hopelessly in love with you."
The knife stops, midair only for a second. Then it resumes.
"It seems," he says quietly, "you've formed a rather flattering opinion of me."
"I've formed an observational opinion. I could be wrong, of course."
He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches for another onion, which tells me I've embarrassed him. That realization delights me far more than it probably should.
"Let me help with this feast. I can at least chop vegetables."
Tristan glances over his shoulder as he stirs something fragrant in a cast-iron pan.
"I assure you, Miss Monroe, my culinary reputation has survived this long without assistance."
"I'm an excellent sous-chef."
His mouth curves ever so slightly. "Very well, the carrots are there."
"Victory!" I retrieve a chopping board and one of the beautiful old chef's knives resting beside it. "Good grief." I hold it up. "This thing belongs in a museum."
"It belonged to my grandfather. It’s been sharpened rather faithfully."
"I can see that."
I begin slicing carrots. The knife glides through them like silk.
"I understand why people become attached to good kitchen knives. Chefs, too."
"They demand respect."
"I've always thought the same thing about power tools."
"I'm not entirely certain those belong in the same sentence."
I grin as I reach for another carrot. Then ... the knife slips.
"Ow!" The sting is immediate. I pull my hand back instinctively. A bright bead of blood wells at the tip of my index finger.
Before I can react, Tristan inhales sharply. It’s not a normal breath but a sudden, involuntary intake of air that sounds almost ... painful. Like a hiss.
I look up.
He's gone utterly still. One hand grips the edge of the worktop so tightly the wood creaks beneath his fingers. His face, impossibly, has become even paler.
"Tristan?"
For a heartbeat he doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed on my hand. Then, with obvious effort, he looks away.
"Forgive me." His voice is lower and rougher. "I..." He clears his throat. "...there's a first-aid drawer there." He gestures toward the far side of the kitchen without looking in my direction.
"Second drawer."
I blink and laugh softly. "You really don't like blood, do you?"
He says nothing. I carry my finger to the sink and rinse it beneath cold water.
"It's barely anything."
Silence. I glance over my shoulder. He's standing exactly where I left him. Back turned. Both hands resting on the counter. Very deliberately looking out the kitchen window into the night.
"Seriously?"
I open the drawer and find a neatly organized collection of bandages, antiseptic wipes, scissors, and enough medical supplies to outfit a small clinic.
"You run a very prepared kitchen."
"I've lived in an old house for a very long time. That’s Mrs. MacLeod’s doing."
I wrap the cut. It has stopped bleeding. When I look back toward him, he's still facing the window.
"You can turn around now."
A pause.
"Has it stopped bleeding?"
"Yes."
Only then does he slowly face me. Whatever had overtaken him appears gone. Well, mostly.
"I apologize."
"For what?"
"I fear I have an unreasonable dislike of seeing people injured."
"That's oddly endearing," I laugh. "I've never met a man who practically faints over a little blood. That’s more a girl thing."
"I'm relieved you find it amusing."
"I do." I smile warmly. "It makes you seem wonderfully human."
The kitchen becomes perfectly quiet. Then Tristan lowers his eyes. "I wish," he says very quietly, "it were as simple as that."
He’s regained himself and now slices fresh herbs with effortless precision before dropping them into a pan where butter hisses softly. The aroma immediately fills the room.
Murphy sits a little straighter, as if wishing to gain some attention. Tristan glances down at him.
"I admire persistence."
Murphy's tail thumps enthusiastically.
"Oh, honestly," I mutter. "You've known each other for an hour."
"I believe we're making excellent progress. He carries himself with considerable dignity."
"He once ate half a birthday cake off my kitchen counter."
"A momentary lapse of dignity."
"He also tore holes in one of my socks."
"I confess I have no defense for that."
The vegetables begin to caramelize, filling the kitchen with a rich, comforting scent. I lean against the old pine table, watching him. He doesn't check a recipe. Every movement is practiced, like someone playing a familiar piece of music.
And it smells delicious. My stomach growls.
“You're cooking for a complete stranger."
He looks over his shoulder. "You're not entirely a stranger anymore, lass." Something about that sentence catches me off guard. I glance toward the rain beginning to streak across the old kitchen windows.
"I suppose not."
For a little while, neither of us speaks. The silence isn't awkward. It's companionable. The sort of silence that only exists when two people don't feel pressured to fill every empty space.
"I should warn you," I say eventually.
"Hm?"
"I make a terrible guest. I might reorganize the spice rack. I’ve been known to move furniture around to make a room better. And I notice things.”
He raises an eyebrow.
"Such as?"
"The hinges on that cupboard were replaced in the nineteen-fifties."
He looks at the cupboard.
"...they were."
"And those floorboards were lifted at some point."
"You've been here five minutes."
"I can't help myself."
"I see."
"You don't sound alarmed."
"I've survived numerous architectural fashions and interesting guests. What is it exactly that you typically do, Piper?"
"I uncover fireplaces, open blocked windows, or undo whatever architectural crimes happened in the nineteen-seventies or earlier. I show a property love. Fix the plumbing. I restore history, Tristan."
That earns me his full attention. He slowly sets down the wooden spoon. He studies me. Then, to my complete delight, he exhales the smallest sigh. The kind a very patient man makes when he realizes the universe has decided to test him personally.
"I haven't even shown you my renovation sketches and ideas for the castle, based on what the auction house provided."
"I'm not certain my constitution could withstand such excitement."
The way he says that … I laugh so hard I have to sit down. He watches me over the rim of the saucepan with an unmistakable warmth in his eyes now. He enjoys making me laugh.
The realization settles over me quietly. Not because he seeks attention. Because every time I laugh, he looks as though the castle itself has become just a little brighter.
A few minutes later, he carries two plates to the table.
Roasted chicken with herbs. New potatoes glistening with butter. Carrots without my blood. Fresh bread still warm enough that steam escapes when he slices it.
"This is amazing. I'm beginning to suspect you've been quietly showing off all evening."
"I assure you, this is an ordinary Tuesday."
"I hate to imagine what you cook to impress people."
Tristan places a crystal glass beside my plate. He pours me some white wine. Then, from a dark bottle already waiting on the sideboard, he pours himself a measure of deep crimson wine.
The color catches the firelight. Darker than merlot. Darker than cabernet. Almost... No. Surely not.
He pulls a chair out for me and motions me to sit. And only then does he take his own chair across from me.
I begin eating and realize I’m famished. It’s been a long day, and a very eventful one. After several bites, I notice he hasn’t touched his food.
"You aren't eating?" I ask.
His gaze meets mine for the briefest moment.
"I've already dined."
It seems like such an ordinary answer. But I have the distinct feeling it isn't the whole truth.