Page 55 of The Black Wife Blessing

I polish off the last bite of pancake, savoring the sweet buttery flavor. "You know what's unfair? You cook better with one functioning leg than most chefs do with all their limbs."

Monica laughs, spearing a piece of bacon. "Cooking isn't about how many limbs you have. It's about knowing your ingredients."

"Is that why you taste-test everything I cook with that skeptical expression?" I raise an eyebrow at her.

"I do not look skeptical!" She tosses her napkin at me.

"You absolutely do. Your left eyebrow goes up like this—" I demonstrate, making an exaggerated face of suspicion. "And then you do this little head tilt, like you're thinking 'bless his heart, he tried.'"

She nearly chokes on her orange juice. "I do not!"

"You absolutely do. Every time I cook for you."

"Maybe because you think salt is a personality trait," she counters, grinning.

I clutch my chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Mrs. Blackwood. Salt is an art form in the culinary world, I'll have you know."

When we finish eating, Monica shifts in her seat, reaching for her crutches. "Let me help with the dishes."

"Absolutely not." I stand quickly, collecting both our plates before she can protest. "You stay right where you are." I stack her silverware on top with a definitive clink.

"Henry, I can at least dry?—"

"Nope." I stack the dishes with practiced efficiency, moving them out of her reach. "Consider the kitchen off-limits until further notice. Doctor's orders."

"That's ridiculous. I'm not an invalid." She sits up straighter, that stubborn gleam in her eyes I've come to recognize all too well.

I turn to face her, hands on my hips. "Did I say you were? No. But you have a broken ankle, and standing at the sink isn't going to help it heal. Besides, I'm perfectly capable of washing a few dishes without burning down the apartment."

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off.

"Just relax. Put on some music, read a book, plot world domination—whatever you want. But the dishes are mine."

Monica sighs dramatically but settles back in her chair. "Fine. But only because you're being so damn stubborn about it. And my ankle is not broken, I'll have you know. It's only fractured."

"Same thing." I grin victoriously, collecting the remaining dishes and carrying them to the sink. As I rinse plates and load the dishwasher, I catch her watching me with a soft smile.

"What?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

"Nothing," she says, that smile still playing on her lips. "Just enjoying the view."

37

MONICA

Istretch my legs as much as I can with this damn cast still on my ankle. Being stuck in bed all day has me wanting to climb the walls, even in Henry's luxurious penthouse with its ridiculously comfortable mattress and thousand-thread-count sheets.

"I'm so fucking bored," I groan, tossing my phone aside after scrolling through the same social media posts for the third time today. The walls of this penthouse are starting to close in on me, no matter how pristine and perfect they are.

Henry looks up from his laptop, those blue eyes catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. The sun hits him just right, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. "Poor baby. Been a whole six hours since you tried to sneak into the kitchen, huh?" His voice carries that teasing tone that both irritates and thrills me.

"I wasn't sneaking. I was getting water." I fold my arms across my chest defensively. "It's not a crime to be thirsty."

"Mmhmm." He closes his laptop with a definitive click and sets it on the nightstand. "You know what the doctor said. Rest." He emphasizes the last word like it's a command, all business-like in that way that reminds me he runs a multi-million dollar company.

"I've rested enough to hibernate for winter." I shift against the pillows, wincing slightly when my ankle twinges. "I need something to do. Anything. I'm dying here, Henry. My brain cells are committing mass suicide from boredom."

Henry's mouth curves into that smile that still makes my stomach flip, the one that's equal parts dangerous and delicious. His eyes darken just enough for me to catch it. "I can entertain you," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower.

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