18. #3
I slid off the stool and walked around the island to stand beside her. "I can help."
"It's fine," she said. "cooking is basically my love language."
The kitchen slowly filled with the quiet rhythm of movement.
Cabinet doors opening. The soft clatter of utensils against the counter. The low hum of the refrigerator every time Isabel leaned inside it looking for something else to add.
She worked quickly but casually, like she had done this a thousand times before. Eggs appeared on the counter, then a carton of spinach, a bag of potatoes, bell peppers, and a block of cheese that she sliced.
She slid the pan onto the stove and turned the burner on, the faint hiss of heat filling the space between us.
For a minute the conversation paused while she worked, pouring the eggs into the pan and moving them around with a spatula.
The quiet wasn't uncomfortable.
It was easy.
Which was strange considering we'd only met ten minutes ago.
Isabel finally glanced over again.
"So," she said, like she'd been thinking about something for a while. "I did have a feeling Grant had a thing for you."
My head snapped up.
"Really?"
She shrugged, stirring the eggs.
"Yeah."
The spatula scraped softly across the pan as she spoke.
"Grant has a really tight schedule at work. Like... painfully tight. His calendar is basically stacked with appointments all day."
She flipped the eggs onto two plates while continuing.
"Normally when someone new comes in, he does the consultation first. That's just how the practice works since he's the lead doctor."
She slid one plate toward me and leaned back against the counter with the other.
"But after that he usually passes the patient on to one of the other doctors or one of our LPCs."
I frowned slightly.
"LPCs?"
"Licensed professional counselors," she explained easily. "They're the ones who usually handle weekly therapy sessions."
Isabel took a bite of her food before continuing.
"It's actually pretty rare for Grant to keep someone as a long-term therapy patient."
The realization settled slowly in my chest.
"With you though..." she continued, gesturing toward me with her fork, "you had weekly sessions with him."
I stared down at my plate for a moment.
"I didn't know that was unusual."
Isabel gave a small smile.
"Yeah. It kind of is."
She didn't say anything else after that.
But the implication hung quietly in the air between us.
For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the soft scrape of our forks against the plates.
Then Isabel spoke again, her tone lighter this time.
"Only because he's thinking about opening a California branch that's why he's especially busy."
My head lifted again.
"Grant is?"
She nodded.
"Yeah. It's been in the works for a while."
Something in my stomach tightened slightly.
"He never mentioned that."
Isabel shrugged.
"Grant's weird about that kind of thing."
She took another bite of food.
"He doesn't like talking about plans until they're basically already happening."
I nodded slowly, trying to ignore the quiet thought creeping into the back of my mind.
Grant knew almost everything about my life.
But I hadn't known he might be planning to move across the country.
Isabel seemed completely unaware of the small spiral forming in my head.
Instead she pushed her empty plate aside and leaned back against the counter again.
"Are you actually married or...?"
Her sentence trailed off slightly.
"I heard PR relationships are getting pretty popular these days."
I hesitated.
"It's... complicated."
She nodded immediately.
"Ah." A small smile tugged at her mouth. "I know complicated all too well."
She picked up her coffee mug again and took a sip before glancing at me.
"You dating someone?" I asked without thinking.
Isabel laughed softly. "I am." Then she trailed off. "But it's..."
At the same time we both said it.
"Complicated."
For a second we just stared at each other.
Then we both laughed.
And somewhere in the middle of that moment, I realized I was actually enjoying myself.
The rest of the afternoon passed easier than I expected.
Isabel talked about classes she was taking, complaining about a professor. She told me about the chaos of working at Grant's practice and how difficult it could be managing his schedule.
Eventually the conversation turned toward me, though she was careful not to pry too much anymore.
I told her about my own time in college, about the parts of school I had loved and the ones I had rushed through too quickly. It had been a long time since I'd talked about that version of my life, and the memories felt strangely distant now.
At one point Isabel leaned back against the counter, watching me with a small grin.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I didn't expect you to be this... normal."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Normal?"
"You're the First Lady," she said with a shrug. "I figured you'd be intimidating or something."
I laughed softly.
"Trust me. I'm not intimidating."
She studied me for a second before nodding slowly.
By the time the clock crept closer to four, the kitchen was quiet again. Isabel had long since abandoned the idea of using Grant's gym membership. Eventually she glanced down at her phone and sighed.
"I should probably head out."
I walked with her toward the front door, suddenly realizing how much lighter I felt than I had that morning.
"Thanks for keeping me company," I said.
Isabel waved the comment away like it was nothing.
"Please. I had fun."
She stepped outside, giving me a quick hug and waving bye before walking in the direction of her car. I closed the door behind her with a quiet click.
The house fell quiet again.
But it didn't feel lonely this time.
I wandered back toward the kitchen, glancing around the room while trying to decide what to do with the rest of the afternoon.
Grant would probably be home soon.
The thought lingered in the back of my mind for a moment before an idea slowly formed.
I wasn't much of a cook.
Actually, that wasn't entirely accurate.
I was terrible at it.
But after everything he'd done for me over the time of us knowing each other, the least I could do was try to make him something.
A quick search on my phone pulled up a recipe that looked simple enough.
Rice.
Chicken.
Some kind of sauce.
How hard could it be?
Forty minutes later the answer was becoming very clear.
The sauce in the pan had started separating into something that looked more like oil and regret than an actual meal. The rice in the pot was somehow both watery and threatening to turn into mush at the same time.
And Grant had texted fifteen minutes ago saying he was on his way home.
Which meant he could walk through the door at any moment.
Right on cue, the keypad at the front door beeped.
Then the lock turned.
"Naomi?" Grant called from the entryway.
I stared down at the disaster simmering on the stove.
"In here," I called back.
Grant stepped into the kitchen a second later.
For a moment he just stood there in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of him.
The stove was on. Two pots were bubbling with questionable enthusiasm. The counter was scattered with half-used ingredients and a phone propped up against a spice jar displaying the recipe I had very clearly not followed correctly.
And I was standing in the middle of it looking mildly horrified.
His expression slowly shifted.
The surprise softened into something warmer.
Pleased.
He set his bag and keys down on the counter near the door before walking toward me.
"Are you cooking?" he asked, sounding genuinely impressed.
"Attempting to," I admitted.
Grant came to stand behind me, his arms sliding easily around my waist as he leaned forward slightly to look into the pot on the stove.
Up close I could feel the warmth of his body through the oversized shirt I was still wearing.
"I could've sworn you told me you didn't like cooking," he said.
"I don't."
He laughed softly against my shoulder.
"Then why are you cooking?"
I turned my head slightly so I could look up at him.
"I was trying to do something nice."
Grant lifted the lid from one of the pots, studied the contents for a moment, then slowly lowered it again.
"By poisoning me?"
The laugh that followed was completely unrestrained.
I smacked his chest lightly.
"This recipe is harder than it looked."
"It's okay," he said, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. "I appreciate the gesture."
Grant stepped away from the stove, glancing toward the hallway that led upstairs.
"I'm going to change."
He disappeared up the stairs while I turned the burners off before the entire meal completely disintegrated.
By the time he came back down a few minutes later, he had traded his work clothes for a pair of athletic shorts and a sleeveless top. His hair was slightly damp again, like he'd splashed water over his face.
I leaned against the counter, watching him walk back into the kitchen.
"Do you work out every day after work?" I asked.
"Try to," he said.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before turning back toward me.
"There's something I should probably tell you."
The shift in his tone immediately caught my attention.
"What is it?"
Grant twisted the cap off the bottle, taking a quick sip before answering.
"I don't know how you're going to react to this," he said carefully, "but Alexander knows about us."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
He leaned back against the counter across from me.
"He was waiting for me to tell him," Grant explained calmly.
"I'm not understanding," I said.
Grant rubbed the back of his neck briefly.
"Alexander's the Director of the Secret Service," he said. "But his brother Sean is the Secretary of Homeland Security."
I nodded slowly, still trying to follow where this was going.
"Apparently your friend, what did you say her name was? Reese?"
"Yes."
"Reese never actually spoke to Alexander about removing personnel from following you to your appointments."