Page 25 of Rescue

Her eyes narrow in mock disapproval. “I don’t think that’s how being a guest works.”

Layla gasps dramatically, grabbing Abigail’s arm. “Mum, please let him cook! Doctor Jon is going to make something amazing, I just know it! Can I help? Please?”

I glance at Layla, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. “I could use an assistant,” I say, giving her a conspiratorial nod.

Layla squeals, dropping her bag to the floor with a thud. “Yes! I’ll be the best assistant ever!”

Abigail sighs, clearly outnumbered. “You’ve really done it now, haven’t you?” she mutters but she can’t fool me. I can see that grin she is trying to hide.

“It’s all part of the plan,” I say, smirking as I pull ingredients from the bag. “And don’t worry—I’m pretty decent in the kitchen.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Abigail replies, leaning against the counter with her arms still folded. “But if you burn the house down, you’re paying for the rebuild.”

“Fair deal,” I say. Layla’s already tugging at my sleeve, demanding to know what we’re making.

“Doctor Jon,” she says seriously, pointing to the bag, “is it going to be spaghetti? I love spaghetti.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” I say with a wink. This is going to be interesting.

The kitchen is a mess of flour, laughter, and sticky fingers. Layla stands on a chair beside me, her hands buried in the dough we’re kneading together. Her face is smeared with a streak of flour, and her grin is so wide it’s infectious.

“This is so squishy!” she exclaims, pressing her tiny fists into the soft, elastic dough. “Is it supposed to be this squishy, Doctor Jon?”

“Yes, exactly this squishy,” I reply, chuckling. “You’re doing great, Layla. Keep going.”

She kneads with all the enthusiasm of someone who thinks the fate of dinner depends on her. To be fair, it kind of does.

“When does it stop being sticky?”

“When it feels smooth like your cheek,” I say, poking her cheek for emphasis. She giggles, and I can’t help but smile. “Here, let me check.”

I take the dough from her, knead it a few more times and press it lightly with my fingers. “Perfect,” I declare, earning a proud little squeal from her. “Now we let it rest while we work on the sauce.”

Layla hops down from the chair and drags it behind her to the hob, where the ragù is simmering away in a large pot. The rich scent of beef, garlic, and tomatoes fills the air, and I can see her nose twitch as she takesit in.

“Can I stir it?” she asks, already reaching for the wooden spoon.

"Alright, Chief Stirrer," I say, stepping back from the pot. "Before you start your important job, we’ve got to wash those hands. Can’t have extra seasoning in the sauce, right?"

Layla giggles, sprinting to the sink. I lift her up, and she turns the tap with gusto. She scrubs her hands enthusiastically under the warm water, sending soap suds flying everywhere.

"Clean!" she announces, holding up her tiny hands for inspection.

"Spotless," I confirm with a nod. I grab a towel to dry her hands, then help her back onto the chair she’s using as a makeshift perch by the oven. “Now, ready to stir?”

She nods vigorously, taking the wooden spoon with an air of responsibility. "I’m ready!"

I scoot the chair closer to the hob so she can see into the large pot. She leans forward cautiously, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she stirs the rich, bubbling sauce.

“Remember, slow and steady,” I say, keeping an eye on her. “We don’t want any sauce splashes.”

“Got it,” she replies, her focus unwavering. She stirs carefully, the wooden spoon moving in smooth circles through the thick, aromatic mixture.

While she tends to her very serious task, I turn my attention back to the dough. I roll it out roughly with the rolling pin and cut it by hand. Scooping up the uneven but charmingly rustic strips, I drop them into the boiling pot of salted water.

“Time for a quick hand wash,” I say, heading to the sink myself. Layla pauses in her stirring, watching me.

“Why do you need to wash your hands? Your hands look clean,” she asks, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.

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