Page 63 of Fighting for Scarlett

Because there were no answers yet, just a whole lot of questions.

The only thing that was going to make him feel better was knowing the woman he was taking the biggest risk of his life on was no longer in danger.

Truth was, he was no closer to making that a reality.

This was one op he couldn’t fail on.

Falling in love and losing that person had always been his biggest fear, but maybe falling but never getting a chance for it to turn into love before you lost that person was a worse fate.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

January 17th

5:35 P.M.

“I can't believe you’ve never made your own pasta before,” Scarlett said as she ran the pasta sheets through the machine, flatting them out so they could then be cut into spaghetti strips.

Tate chuckled. “I don’t think I'm in the minority there, sweetheart.”

There was no way on earth her body couldn’t respond to that endearment. Never in her life had her parents or grandparents or any of her foster parents ever used one. In fact, there had been a time when her parents and grandparents referred to her simply as girl child, and her brother boy child. Apparently, it was supposed to help both of them prepare for the lives of military service they had planned for them.

Only her parents’ view of the military was so very different from those she had met while at Prey.

Serving meant having a new family of brothers and sisters, but it didn't mean you left your family at home behind. The men and women who were prepared to give the ultimate sacrifice to make the world a safer place for the people and country they loved were doing it for those families at home.

Unlike her own family who didn't care one little bit about the people left behind.

Shaking off those feelings, Scarlett wasn’t going to let her past reach out its tentacles and invade her present or her future.

“You haven’t even made your own lasagna?” Surely, he’d at least done that. Hadn't everybody made homemade lasagna at some point in their lives?

Another chuckle. “Sweetheart, I haven’t made much of anything. I'm not a cook. Before my mom died, she did all the cooking, so we had homemade meals almost every night, but I never participated in their cooking. Then after, we mostly lived off takeout. In college it was more takeout, and then I enlisted. As an adult, I mostly cook whatever’s quick. Throw a steak on the grill, or a premade dinner in the oven. Don’t spend my time cooking, much less from scratch.”

Staring at him, aghast, she shook her head. “So, you haven’t made your own pizza? Or baked cookies? Or made homemade soup in the winter?” How had he never done any of those things before? Was he right? Was she the one in the minority making most things from scratch and spending hours cooking even though it was usually just for herself?

“You're adorable.” Tate leaned over the touched a kiss to the tip of her nose. “And, no, I've never done any of those things. But I can tell you’ve done them and more. What made you get so interested in cooking?”

“Cooking was one of my chores from about as young as I can remember. When I was really little, I used to help my grandmother cook, but then as I got older she left the chore to me. I decided if I had to do it, I may as well make it fun, and so I started looking up recipes, seeing what I could make, and then trying them all out. Some were epic failures, but others were big successes. There was a time when I lived for the compliments I got from my grandparents on my cooking, they were about the only ones I ever got. Lame, I know. I shouldn’t need their validation,” she said as she laid out the pasta sheets ready to cut.

“Hey.” Tate took her shoulders in his hands and turned her to face him. “Look at me, sweetheart.” When she lifted her gaze to meet his she found it both tender and firm. “I get it. Trust me I do. Compliments weren't a big part of my childhood either. There’s nothing wrong with needing the adults in your life to care about you.”

“Once my grandparents died, and Zander and I went into foster care, I never got to cook much,” she said softly. Back then as a scared and angry thirteen-year-old girl, she’d missed the one thing that used to bring her joy. “So as soon as I aged out of the system and moved into my own place I started cooking again. As often as I could I’d make big meals, then deliver everything I couldn’t eat to neighbors or friends. I did consider for a moment becoming a chef, mainly because I knew it would drive my parents crazy.” When she gave Tate a cheeky grin he threw back his head and laughed.

“You would have been amazing as a chef just like you're amazing as a scientist. I'd love for you to teach me to make all the things you love.”

“You would?” Just because she loved cooking didn't mean she expected Tate to like it too.

“Of course. I want you to share the things you love with me.” The tenderness bled out of his gaze, which grew serious enough that Scarlett eased herself out of Tate’s grip, positive that whatever he was thinking was something she didn't want to hear.

Turning, she set up the attachment to the pasta machine so she could cut the sheets into spaghetti. Half of the sheets had been cut before Tate spoke again. Saying the words she had been dreading someone saying to her.

“Scarlett, I don’t want you to think I'm angry, or that this means I don’t trust you, or that anyone has any doubts about you, but you lied in the polygraph.”

Just like that, her heart began to race, and her palms got sweaty. Her entire body clenched in denial as every drop of fear she’d felt in that room when that drug had hit her system came rushing back.

“You can trust me, Scarlett,” Tate said gently. “I want you to know that there isn’t anything you can't share with me.”

Maybe.

---