28. Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Lina
Alex shows up right after six, arms full of grocery bags, shoulders squared like the weight of ten bags doesn’t bother him at all.
“Hey,” I say. The smell of fresh herbs and something citrusy drifts between us.
“Hey,” he replies, smiling.
I notice the bags. “Here. Let me help you with those.”
He pulls back instinctively, almost amused. “I’ve got it,” he says gently.
I blink. “I’m serious, it’s fine.”
He shakes his head, firm but gentle. “Where I’m from, gentlemen carry bags.”
A soft, comforting warmth flows through me, bringing a smile to my face.
I step aside, letting him pass. “Well, okay.”
It’s such a small thing. Almost nothing. Yet it lingers far longer than it should.
Because no one ever offered me that sort of kindness before.
With Cole, I did the shopping. I unloaded the car.
I put everything away while he sank into the couch like the effort of standing was beneath him.
If he cooked—and that was rare—I still prepped everything beforehand.
Chopped. Seasoned. Planned. And afterward, I cleaned while he acted like grilling a steak made him a hero.
He used to brag about it, too. Like standing over a grill with a beer while I handled the rest was some monumental contribution, like he’d done the hardest part. And his steaks were shit.
I follow Alex into the kitchen now, watching as he sets the bags down carefully, already scanning the counter space, thinking ahead.
“You can tell me where you want things,” he says easily.
“Feel free to use any space in the kitchen,” I say.
I begin pointing to each cabinet and drawer, giving him a brief overview of where items are.
He takes it all in and nods, content with the information.
I lean against the doorway for a moment, watching him unpack. No charade or expectation of praise. Just simple competence.
It shouldn’t seem this different. But it does.
As I watch him move around the kitchen, a quiet realization settles over me.
This isn’t extraordinary. It’s the bare minimum.
Carrying in groceries. Cooking dinner. Showing up. None of it should feel remarkable.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot that partnership isn’t something one person carries alone. It’s something two people choose to build together. The right person doesn’t “help.” They participate. They notice what needs to be done because they care, not because they were asked.
Maybe Alex is only doing what any decent man would do.
Maybe that’s the point.
Even if this is ordinary to him, he thought enough of me to come over, cook dinner, and give me one less thing to worry about.
And tonight...that feels really, really good.
Alex is already moving quickly. Washing his hands and taking stock of my kitchen like its familiar territory.
“Sit,” he says gently, nodding toward the breakfast table. “I’m sure you’ve done enough today.”
I move to open my mouth in protest out of habit—a reflexive I’m fine, I can help, let me—but stop myself.
“…Okay,” I say, surprising us both.
I perch on the stool and watch him move around the kitchen, competently without being rushed, like he’s done this a hundred times.
He senses my eyes on him.
“You look uncomfortable,” he says without turning around.
“I do not.” How does he know? He’s facing the counter.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You do. Like you’re waiting for permission to stand back up and take over.”
I bring my arms across my chest, uncross them, and realize that probably proves his point. “I’m merely…observing.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, grabbing a pan. “You’re terrible at doing nothing.”
I arch a brow. “Excuse you.”
“I don’t mean that to be rude,” he adds easily. “You’re just the type of person who always has a next step lined up. If there’s nothing to manage, you invent something.”
I consider denying it and sigh. “Okay, wow. Still rude. And sadly accurate.”
He looks back, smiling. “It’s probably killing you to sit there and not be in charge.”
I shift on the stool. “It’s…uncomfortable.”
“That’s what I figured,” he says, smiling.
There’s no judgment in his voice. Only observation.
I lean my elbows on the counter, watching him. “From a really young age,” I say, “being still was never an option.”
He stills a fraction, listening.
“If I wasn’t doing something, I was in the way. Or lazy. Or wasting time. Rest wasn’t earned unless anything and everything else was done first.” I exhale. “And nothing was ever truly done.”
He turns and supports himself on the counter across from me. “So sitting equates to what? Failure?”
“More like exposure,” I admit. “Like if I stop moving, something bad might catch up, or I’m told I’m not doing enough.”
His gaze softens.
“That’s a lot to carry,” he says.
I shrug, a little too casually. “You get used to it.”
“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” he replies.
A quiet moment passes between us.
He reaches for the spatula again. “Today, your job is to sit. Let someone else handle things.”
“And if I fail spectacularly at that?” I ask.
“Nonetheless, I’ll kindly ask that you sit again,” he says, deadpan. “Possibly add threats involving burned chicken.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re very bossy for someone cooking in MY kitchen.”
“Temporary authority,” he says.
I watch him carefully.
“Okay,” I say again. Softer this time. “I’ll try.”
He glances back at me, something warm and approving in his eyes.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
He chops and cleans as he goes, wiping the counter between steps, stacking scraps neatly, rinsing knives instead of leaving them in the sink. It’s efficient without being rigid, careful without being obsessive. He doesn’t create chaos and promises to deal with it later. He handles it now.
I already love that.
“What’s on the menu?” I ask, resting my chin in my palm.
He casts his gaze behind him. “Chicken Scarpariello,” he says with an accent.
“That sounds impressive.”
He smiles. “It’s comfort food. My mom taught me when I was fourteen.”
That catches my attention. “Fourteen?”
“Yeah,” he says, reaching for the garlic. “We lived in Queens. Mostly an Italian neighborhood. Everyone cooked. Everyone argued about how to cook and who was the best cook. She figured if I learned early, I’d never starve.”
I watch him move—assured, practiced. The knife doesn’t hesitate in his hand; it obeys.
Every motion feels instinctive, like something etched into muscle and bone long before tonight.
He flips it, palms it, shifts his grip without looking—fluid, controlled.
As if it isn’t a utensil at all, but an extension of him.
I’m certain he didn’t learn that in a kitchen.
“Okay wow. You’re pretty amazing with a knife.”
Alex stills mid-twirl, like he hadn’t realized he was doing it.
“Krav Maga,” he says, casually. “Defense training.”
And then, almost absently, the blade rolls once more across his fingers—deliberate—before he sets it down.
“So you’re Italian,” I say, more statement than question.
He chuckles. “I figured that would be obvious.”
I shrug. “You honestly never know. Here in Texas you could be anything. I thought you were maybe Latin of some origin, but I wasn’t sure. Pretty much all of my friends are Mexican. Most people assume I’m Mexican as well.”
“You do bake fresh Mexican Conchas at your bakery,” he says.
“Yes, but they aren’t the traditional ones. Ours have flavored toppings. Strawberry, Vanilla, Chocolate, and Coffee flavored.” I say, smiling at the thought of those warm and yummy breads.
“I’m a fan of your Strawberry ones. They are pretty amazing,” he says.
At that moment, it becomes clear to me he doesn’t have that Northern accent most New Yorkers have.
“Wait. You don’t have an accent,” I say.
That draws his attention to me, a brow lifting slightly. “No?”
“No,” I say. “I expected something. At least a hint of Queens. But you sound completely neutral.”
He smiles at that. Almost amused.
“I used to,” he says easily, turning back to the cutting board. “Thick. Queens, Italian, all of it layered together.”
“What happened?”
“I got rid of it,” he answers simply.
I blink. “On purpose?”
“Yes,” he says, glancing at me. “It didn’t serve me anymore.”
That’s interesting.
“I learned pretty early that people listen differently depending on how you sound,” he continues. “I wanted to appear more professional. Less like someone they could easily dismiss before I finished a sentence.”
“So you trained it out.”
He nods. “Took a while. Harder than people think.”
There’s something intimate about that admission. About choosing reinvention down to the way your voice leaves your mouth.
I smile. “That’s kind of impressive.”
“Thank you,” he says.
For another moment, I observe him, discerning him a little more clearly now—not solely his origin, but what he opted to relinquish.
“Well,” I say lightly, “for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have minded the accent.”
He turns to look at me, and his mouth curves. “Good to know.”
Almost casually, he adds, “I can still bring it out if the situation calls for it,” he says with an accent, like a Tony Soprano.
I laugh. “Oh…”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes warm and teasing. “Careful what you ask for.”
And as if by magic, the atmosphere between us changes—lighter, warmer.
He meets my eyes for a brief second, something unreadable flickering there, and turns back to the counter.