18. Rex
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Rex
I rented out an entire cooking school so nobody would see me fail at making pasta, and I was failing spectacularly.
Flour covered every surface within a five-foot radius of my workstation.
Somehow, there was dough in my hair. The pasta machine had defeated me twice, producing sheets so thick they could have been used as building materials.
And the chef, a patient woman named Elena who clearly regretted every life choice that had led her to this moment, was watching me with an expression caught between horror and amusement.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “we should start again from the beginning.”
“I’ve started from the beginning three times.”
“Then we will start a fourth time.” She handed me a clean bowl with the serenity of a saint. “Cooking is about patience, Mr. Waller.”
I was not known for my patience.
But across the kitchen, Freya was laughing so hard she had tears running down her cheeks, and that made the humiliation worth it.
“You have flour on your nose,” she managed between giggles. “And in your eyebrow. How did you get it in your eyebrow?”
“Natural talent.”
“I’ve seen you negotiate billion-dollar deals. I’ve seen you make grown men cry in boardrooms. And you cannot make pasta.”
“Pasta is harder than boardrooms. Boardrooms don’t physically fight back.”
She lost it completely at that, doubling over and clutching the counter for support. Her whole body shook with laughter, and the sound filled the empty cooking school like music.
This was the best date I’d ever planned.
It had taken three weeks to arrange. I’d rented the school for a private evening, hired Elena to guide us through a three-course Italian meal, and stocked the wine cellar with Freya’s favorites.
Everything was supposed to be romantic and impressive, the kind of evening that showed her I could do thoughtful instead of just expensive.
Instead, it had turned into a comedy of errors, and I couldn’t bring myself to care.
“Okay, okay.” Freya wiped her eyes and came over to my station. “Let me help before you accidentally burn the place down.”
“I’m nowhere near fire.”
“Yet. I’m being proactive.”
She stepped into my space, her hands covering mine on the dough. “You’re kneading too hard. You need to be gentle. Here.” She guided my movements, showing me the rhythm. “Like this. Just fold and press, fold and press.”
I tried to focus on the pasta. I really did. But she was so close, her body warm against my side, her scent filling my senses. It was impossible to think about dough when all I wanted to do was pull her into my arms.
“You’re not paying attention,” she accused.
“I’m paying attention to other things.”
“Rex.”
“What? You’re distracting.”
She elbowed me in the ribs, but she was smiling. “Focus. We still have to make the sauce.”
We managed, somehow, to produce something resembling edible pasta.
Elena took over for the more complicated parts, guiding us through a lemon butter sauce that actually turned out well.
By the end, we had plates of food that looked almost professional, and I only had flour in three of my body parts instead of all of them.
“We should open the wine,” Elena suggested, gesturing to the bottles I’d selected. “To celebrate your success.”
“Just water for me,” Freya said quickly. “I’m driving.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d turned down alcohol. I’d noticed it at the diner too, and at the movie night, and every other date we’d been on. Freya liked wine. She’d been known to have a glass or two with dinner during our marriage, had strong opinions about reds versus whites.
But for weeks now, nothing.
“Of course.” Elena poured her water and me a glass of red, and we sat down at the candlelit table to eat.
The food was good. Not great, since my pasta was still too thick and I’d over-salted something at some point, but good enough to be satisfying. We ate and talked and laughed about the evening’s disasters.
Then Elena brought out the fish course.
It was salmon, beautifully prepared, with some kind of dill sauce I couldn’t pronounce. Elena set the plates down with a flourish, and the smell hit me, rich and buttery and, apparently, revolting to Freya.
She went pale. Not just a little pale, but white as the napkin in her lap, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Excuse me,” she managed, and practically ran for the door.
I was on my feet before I could think, following her out into the cool night air. She stood bent over by the garden wall, taking deep, shaking breaths.
“Hey.” I rubbed slow circles on her back. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I just… the smell…” She shook her head. “Give me a minute.”
I gave her a minute. Gave her five, standing beside her in the dark, not asking questions, just being there while she pulled herself together.
Finally, she straightened up. “I’m sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. Are you getting sick? We can go home if you need to.”
“I’m not sick. I just…” She trailed off, staring at the sky like it held answers I couldn’t see. “Can we skip the fish? Maybe just have dessert?”
“We can do whatever you want.”
We went back inside, and Elena whisked away the offending salmon without comment, bringing out tiramisu instead. Freya picked at it, still looking shaky, and I watched her with growing concern.
Something was wrong. Something she wasn’t telling me. And every instinct I had screamed at me to push, to demand answers, to fix whatever was broken.
But I was learning.
So instead of pushing, I asked a question I’d been wanting to ask for weeks.
“Tell me about your mom.”
Freya looked up, surprised. “My mom?”
“You mentioned her garden once. And the shampoo. You told me about it after I asked, but you didn’t really talk about her.” I reached across the table and took her hand. “I want to know her. Through you. If you’re willing to share.”
For a long moment, she was quiet. Then something in her face softened.
“She was the best person I ever knew,” she said. “Patient. Kind. Always seeing the good in people, even when they didn’t deserve it. Especially when they didn’t deserve it.” A small smile. “She would have loved you.”
“Yeah?”
“She loved everyone. But she would have seen through all your walls in about five seconds and found the scared kid underneath.” Freya’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“She was sick for two years before she died. I spent most of that time taking care of her, watching her fade. And my dad just… disappeared into a bottle. Couldn’t handle it. Left me alone with all of it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She was quiet for a moment. “She was the one who wanted me to teach. She thought I’d be good at it.
After she died, my dad said it was beneath me.
Beneath our family. Like we had any family left to protect.
” Her voice cracked. “I gave up that dream because I thought I had to. But I loved it. I always loved it.”
“You’re teaching now.”
“I am.” She looked at me, and there was something in her eyes I couldn’t quite read. “You know what she would have told me? About us?”
“What?”
“That people can change. That second chances aren’t weakness. And that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone prove they’re different.”
My throat tightened. “Do you believe that?”
“I’m starting to.”
I squeezed her hand, not trusting myself to speak.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For finally seeing me. For actually caring about the things that matter, instead of just throwing money at everything.”
“I should have seen you from the beginning. And I should have asked about your mom the first week we were married. I should have…”
“You should have done a lot of things. We both should have.” She stood up and came around the table, settling into my lap like she belonged there. “But we’re here now. That has to count for something.”
I held her close, breathing her in, aching to take her home with me. To put her back in our bed where she belonged, to wake up next to her every morning, to never let her go again.
But I didn’t ask. I was learning.
She was the one who asked.
“Can I come to the ranch this weekend?” She pulled back to look at me, something vulnerable in her expression. “I want to see Penny. I miss her.”
My heart stopped, then started again twice as fast. “You want to come home?”
“I want to see my horse.” But she was smiling. “We can talk about the rest when I get there.”
“Okay.” My voice came out rough. “Yeah. Okay. This weekend. I’ll make sure everything’s ready.”
She kissed me softly, and I tasted hope.