Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Avery
I’m standing in a cramped Portuguese grocery store off Ninth Street in the East Village, holding two nearly identical jars of preserved cod and wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.
The place smells like dried fish, spices, and olive oil, and everything on the labels is in Portuguese. I glance down at the handwritten list in my hand, and only three of the items are checked off.
This was supposed to be simple.
Buy ingredients. Cook the thing. Impress my wife.
"How hard can Bacalhau à Brás be?" I mutter under my breath. "It’s basically shredded cod, eggs, and potatoes. Throw it all in a pan and cook."
"Are you sure you want to even attempt this?
" Orlando asks, standing beside me and just as confused as I am. "I am almost certain you’re not supposed to just throw the ingredients in and let them cook, but I’m not here to interfere.
" He takes the list from me. "This is a lot of effort to go to for a woman you don’t know all that well," he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
I shrug it off. "She’s my wife. And like you said, I don’t know her as well as I would like to. I’m hoping this helps with that a little."
"You would like to get to know her, or you should get to know her?" he questions, right as I pick up golden potatoes and throw them into my cart.
"What’s the difference?"
"The difference, my brother, is that you are not obliged to cook your pretend wife dinner from a country she’s never been to.
It’s not a part of your contract to cook her dinner, period.
And yet, here we are, buying things you thought were only sold in this one store, which tells me one thing. Well, two."
I can hear the arrogance in his words, but my mind is too preoccupied to get defensive about them. "Go on, tell me what you think you know."
"One, you’ve done your research. You’ve never cared about anybody enough to go to lengths like this for no reason. And that reason brings me to point two. You like her."
"Sure. She’s fine. I could think of worse people to be married to."
"Nope. You like-like her, Ave. I don’t care how hard you try to deny it. You forget I know you. Lying would be useless."
I stare at him, long and hard, while I wait for him to say literally anything else.
But he doesn’t. And neither do I.
Instead, I head for the register with my cart full of ingredients I could’ve found at Whole Foods.
Eggs, potatoes, fish, and olives.
So why the hell am I here?
Why does it feel like this dish matters more than it should?
Why do I care if she likes it?
Fuck.
***
I’ve put candles on my dining table three times…and taken them off within thirty seconds of placing them down.
I’m allergic to ambience, it seems.
I think I’m panicking, and it's very unlike me.
Dating? I can handle that. But this? This is way out of my comfort zone. I’m honestly surprised I’m even going through with it.
I shove the candles into the junk drawer in my kitchen—final decision made just in time—then check the oven as I pass, because apparently I’m now someone who gives a shit about timing.
Olive’s four minutes away.
I’ve had this dish once. One time. And yet, I still vividly remember how it tastes.
The smell coming from the oven, though? Yeah, I’ve destroyed it.
Lucky for me, Olive’s never had Bacalhau à Brás before. So I’m either about to ruin the dish for her permanently…or I’ve somehow nailed it, and this is the only version she’ll ever want.
My phone pings, telling me the car’s almost here. My palms sweat instantly, and my heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it in my throat.
All because of a girl.
She knocks.
I immediately decide we’re going out. Forget the cod, forget the candles, forget my entire plan. This was a terrible idea anyway.
I’ll take her somewhere nice for our first official date as a married couple.
That seems more romantic.
When I open the door, she’s standing there with a small bag at her side. Her gorgeous eyes—bright, alive—still look bone-deep exhausted. Like she hasn’t slept more than a few hours in days.
"Hi," she says with a smile, her voice soft and sweet.
Definitely tired.
"Hi." I pick the bag up beside her and usher her into my apartment.
We just stand there for a second, like neither of us knows what happens next.
Do I take it to the spare room? To mine? Is there a guidebook for this fake-marriage thing?
She leans in, rises onto her toes, and kisses me. And with that one kiss, she strips away every bit of doubt I had left.
"I wasn’t sure, you know," I mumble against her lips, before kissing her back.
"About what?" she murmurs, pressing closer, her body flush against mine.
"If you were going to sleep in my bed with me tonight or the spare room, but I’ve just made an executive decision.
This bag," I say, patting the front of it, "is coming with me. If you decide to follow, just know I plan to ravish you—worship you—in ways I haven’t had the chance to do since our wedding night. "
I scoop her up in my arms just like I did in Vegas when she was drunk, lugging her bag behind me. She nuzzles against my chest, giggling with her arms looped around my neck.
"I really would love nothing more than to focus on you worshiping my body tonight, but what is that smell?" she asks, patting me on the arm to put her down as we make it to the kitchen.
"God, I know. I bet it tastes as bad as it smells." I sniff, shaking my head in embarrassment.
"You cooked for me?" she says, a flirty smile on her lips.
"I attempted to, yes. But it was a fail."
"Is it ready? I’m starving, and I want to try…
whatever it is. I can’t pick it from the smell alone.
Is it fish of some sort?" She opens my oven, mitt on her hand, and pulls out the dish as though this is where we eat dinner together every night. She’s so comfortable here, it almost makes me wish this were our constant routine.
"Why don’t we just go out for dinner? I can call up Lorenzo’s and we can have Italian," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket, ready to dial.
She watches me for a moment, soft laughter rumbling through her chest. "I’m too tired to leave. I kind of just want to stay home, eat whatever it is you’ve cooked, and maybe watch a movie or something. If that’s alright?"
Home.
She called my place home.
I feel like an idiot. I knew she was tired, and still asked the question, still told her I wanted to devour her.
"Of course. But I cannot promise you this is going to taste good at all," I say, opening the top drawer to fetch us a fork each.
"What is it supposed to be?" she asks, licking her lips, getting ready to taste.
"It’s a Portuguese dish called Bacalhau à Brás. Mostly cod—hence the fish smell—with potatoes."
"Thank you." She kisses my cheek. "I’m sure I’m going to love it."
She digs her fork into the dish, lifts it to her mouth, gives it a quick sniff, then blows to cool it. One second later, she shoves the fork in and chews.
Then stops.
Her eyes flick to mine.
And just like that, she bolts to the bin, flips the lid, and spits it out.
"Sorry, but that was not good."
"It’s okay. I never had high hopes for it, anyway."
She downs half a glass of water like she’s been lost in the desert.
"You tried," she manages with a cough.
"I did. But at least I know to never try again."
The laughter between us is contagious.
"Maybe you can take me to Portugal one day. Show me what it's is actually supposed to taste like?"
"I would like that."
I would like that, a lot.