Page 113 of At First Smile
“That he did.” I scrub my hands down my face.
“We could—” He motions to the cutting board. “I’m a chef, nobody has to know what happens to the body.”
An unexpected snort belts out of me.
His wry grin is almost disturbing.
But my mouth still lifts. “He’s gone, now. She reported him. She took her power back.”
“Your girl is like hard candy, strong but sweet.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry for how I acted when I first met her. I was?—”
“Being your typical prickish self.” My scoff is firm but not unkind.
He blows out a long breath. “I’ve made an art form of it. Just ask my soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“I’m sorry about Layla and you.”
He’d been so happy with Layla. They’d met in culinary school and seemed perfect for each other.
“I really am sorry,” I repeat.
“Me too.” He steps away and motions to the counter. “You chop the carrots and I’ll finish browning the meat.”
“Pen doesn’t like carrots.”
“First, you’re pussy-whipped.”
Not arguing.
“Second, I’m making two shepherd’s pies. A large one for us and a mini one for Pen.”
Warmth surges inside me, melting the last drop of tension away. No doubt after I gave Mam the list of Pen’s food preferences, he’d decided to do this. Even before whatever conversation they’d had or the brokering of our fresh start, he made special scones for her and planned to make her an individual shepherd’s pie. It’s not for Pen, even if it’s clear he likes her. He’s done this for me.
“Dad used to do that, too. He knew Finn didn’t like sausage patties, so he always made him links when he made us breakfast.” My gaze flicks to my brother, who stands with his back to me at the stove, his head bobs as if taking in the thinly veiled truth that we’re both like our father in more ways than how we look.
At the sink, I wash my hands. Patting them dry, I move to the cutting board on the kitchen counter and begin to chop the carrots.
“Medallions, right?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Just like Gran’s.” A wistful smile tips up the corners of my mouth.
All three of us boys learned to cook in my Gran’s kitchen. She’d make us help her with Sunday roast after church. As we got older, Finn and I found more and more excuses, but Gillian remained by her side, learning her recipes and proclivities for vegetable shapes based on what dish she’d make.
“Gran’s bread pudding.” I groan, the decadent taste of Irish-whiskey-drenched sultanas floods my memories. “Do you still offer Gran’s Sunday roast at Fiona’s?” I swipe the chopped carrots into a bowl.
Every Sunday Gran made roasted beef drizzled in flavorful gravy, potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, vegetables, and bread pudding. In honor of Gran, Gillian serves it each week at his restaurant.
“Yes.”
The burner clicks off.
“But not for long.”
“Why?” A furrow settles on my forehead.
“I’m giving up my share of the restaurant to Layla in the divorce.”
