Page 46 of Slightly Married
“For what it’s worth,” I added, “I think they did you a favor in the long run. Anyone capable of that kind of deception isn’t someone you want to build a life with. Though I’m sure that wasn’t much consolation at the time.”
“It wasn’t,” he agreed, with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “But you’re right.” He straightened. “I still don’t want you working with him.”
“What’s for lunch?” I asked abruptly, changing the subject as my stomach growled audibly. “I can’t possibly have this conversation without food. My brain needs fuel before we debate your hypocrisy.”
“It’s the cook’s day off,” he replied, ignoring my jab.
I groaned dramatically, pressing a hand to my empty stomach. “I’m absolutely starving!”
“So am I,” he admitted.
“Is this how Greek husbands treat their wives? Whisk them away to islands and then let them waste away?”
“Can you cook something?”
I gave him the most withering side-eye I could muster. “Excuse me? Why don’t you cook something, Mr. CFO?”
“Me?” He actually looked offended. “I can’t cook.”
“Then what makes you think I can?” I challenged, crossing my arms. “Contrary to your apparent assumptions, I didn’t come with a built-in culinary feature just because I’m a woman.”
We stared at each other in a standoff before both of us burst out laughing at the absurdity of our situation.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Two fully grown adults who’d literally starve if someone else doesn’t make us food.”
Konstantin must have taken that as a challenge, because he leaped to his feet and dragged me to mine. “Not while there’s internet,” he declared with confidence. “Let’s find a simple recipe and figure out this lunch thing. Together.”
The determination on his face was endearing. I couldn’t help but smile. “Fine. But if we burn down your kitchen, I’m blaming you entirely.”
We settled on a recipe for strapatsada, an egg, and tomato dish that Konstantin said reminded him of his late grandmother. After watching the instructional video twice (and my insisting we watch it a third time), we set out the ingredients and began our culinary adventure.
An hour later, as we surveyed the absolute chaos we’d created in the kitchen, I placed my hand on my hip and gave Konstantin an appraising look.
“How’s business at Olympus? Are those cars of yours selling? Profit margins are increasing?” I wiped a smear of sticky egg white from my forearm.
He looked at me as if I’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. “Yes, why?”
“Because you should definitely stick to that,” I deadpanned. “You sure as hell aren’t going to make a living as a chef.”
His responding laughter was a rich, unreserved sound I hadn’t heard from him before. I felt a pang of longing for what we couldn’t have.
This playful domesticity felt like we were a normal couple enjoying a vacation together. But we weren’t. Our relationship had an expiration date built into the foundation.
He kissed my forehead and readily admitted that cooking wasn’t in his top ten life skills, which was the understatement of the century.
The man had somehow dropped two eggs (on separate occasions), upended an entire bowl of cherry tomatoes across the counter, and burned our first batch of eggs so thoroughly we’d had to start over.
But miraculously, our second attempt turned out decent. The chef had left sourdough bread, and we grilled it on the stovetop after K vetoed my suggestion to use the toaster like normal people.
Despite our culinary misadventures, what we ended up with actually looked like food worthy of social media—if you cropped out the disaster zone surrounding it.
I gave him a playful smack on the ass as he carefully arranged our creation on plates. “Not bad, Chef Boyardee,” I complimented. “But maybe for dinner we should explore this quaint concept called restaurants? I hear they employ people who actually know what they’re doing.”
“Fine,” he replied as he loaded dishes into the dishwasher. “Though we made a good team.”
His words stayed with me as we settled into an unexpected tempo over the following days. Small moments began chipping away at my defenses.
On the third morning, I found him waiting with coffee prepared exactly how I liked it—one sugar and a splash of cream. Such a simple gesture, yet Josh had never learned this detail in our entire three-year relationship.
