Epilogue #2
I grabbed the saucepan and moved it off the heat, which made the smoke alarm scream. Then I tried to turn down the burner under the pasta and managed to splash boiling water on my hand.
“Fuck!”
The smoke alarm kept wailing. I was waving a dish towel at it with one hand while running my burned hand under cold water when Evan appeared in the kitchen.
He took one look at the scene—smoking pan, boiling-over pot, me dripping water onto the floor—and pressed his lips together to smother a laugh.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m not saying anything.” He was definitely saying it with his face.
“The sauce burned.”
“I can see that.”
“And the pasta—”
“Is probably glue by now.” He crossed to the stove, turned off the burner, and moved the pot to the sink. Then he grabbed the broom and used the handle to press the smoke alarm reset button. Blessed silence.
I stood there with my hand still under the faucet, dripping on the floor, feeling like an idiot.
Evan walked over and slid my hand from under the water to examine it. “It’s not that bad. Just a little red.”
“I burned dinner.”
“You cremated dinner. There’s a difference.” His lips twitched.
“I was going to cook for you.”
“I know.” He turned off the faucet and grabbed a dish towel, carefully drying my hand. “And that’s very sweet. But maybe next time you cook, you should stay in the kitchen.”
“I was watching film.”
“I know.” He kissed my palm, right above the burn. “That’s very you.”
“Don’t kiss me when you’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you. I’m just observing that you tried to cook pasta while doing film review and somehow set a jar of sauce on fire.”
“It didn’t catch on fire—”
“It was smoking.”
“That’s different.”
He pulled me down to kiss me properly, and I could feel him smiling against my mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. You’re just…” He looked at me, eyes warm. “You’re adorable when you’re domestically challenged.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He turned to survey the damage. “Okay. New plan. I’ll make dinner. You sit at the counter and don’t touch anything.”
“I can help—”
“You can keep me company. That’s helping.”
He started pulling out ingredients—fresh pasta from the fridge, vegetables, minced garlic, olive oil—while I sat at the counter nursing my wounded pride and my slightly burned hand.
“For the record,” I said, “I had good intentions.”
“I know you did.” He was chopping vegetables, quick and efficient. “Let’s play to our strengths. You handle hockey. I’ll handle food that requires more than a microwave.”
“I can use a grill.”
“You can burn things on a grill. That’s different than cooking.”
I watched him work. He moved around the kitchen with the same confidence he had in his office—capable, in his element. Garlic sizzling in olive oil. Vegetables going into the pan. The smell of actual cooking replacing the burned-sauce stench.
“How was your client call?” I asked.
“Good. Signed the contract.” He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Booked through January now.”
“Last week you were full through December.”
“Good problem to have.” He added the pasta to the pan and tossed everything together. “How was your film review?”
“Learned that our power play needs work and that I can’t multitask cooking and video.”
“Important life lessons.”
Ten minutes later, he set two plates on the counter—actual, edible pasta with vegetables and garlic and grated cheese on top.
“This is really good,” I said after the first bite.
“Thank you.”
“Way better than what I would have made.”
“Yours would have had that nice charcoal flavor.”
I kicked him lightly under the counter. He grinned and kicked me back.
We ate dinner at the kitchen bar, talking about the week ahead. My road trip. His client presentations. The preseason game on Saturday. After, I insisted on doing the dishes while Evan put away the leftovers.
“You know what?” he said, leaning against the counter, watching me. “I kind of love that you tried to cook for me.”
“Even though I failed spectacularly?”
“Especially because you failed spectacularly.” He came over and wrapped his arms around me from behind, chin on my shoulder. “You had good intentions. That’s what matters.”
“Next time I’ll just order takeout.”
“Good plan.”
I dried my hands and turned to face him. His arms stayed around me, easy and certain, the way they always were now.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too. Even though you’re banned from cooking.”
We stood there in our kitchen—burned pan soaking in the sink, dishes in the dishwasher, the photo on the fridge of all of us grinning on my parents’ back deck—and I thought about the guy who’d stood in a club nine months ago and said fuck it to his empty bathroom mirror.
He hadn’t known what he was walking toward. He’d just known he was done standing still.
Best decision he ever made.
Nico planned the perfect honeymoon. Paris had other ideas.