Page 51 of Unmatched

“Lasagna?” I ask. It’s been a while since he prepared his mother’s recipe. I study his face for signs that something’s changed with Sharon, but the tension in his eyes and across his forehead is unchanged.

He nods in reply.

“Well, my whole day just improved.” I smile at him, and he smiles back, but he keeps layering pasta in the pan, clearly distracted by the task and whatever he’s listening to. I watch him slide the dish into the oven, then glance at the clock. “Guess I’ll take a quick shower if it has to bake.”

It’s a little warm for my striped pajamas after I towel off, so I go with a camisole and sleep shorts, wrapping up in my fuzzy pink robe for extra comfort. Anton glances at me when I walk into the dining room, and I’m truly relieved when his eyes don’t linger anywhere.

“This looks amazing. Thanks for cooking.” I grab some plates and glasses and take a deep breath, hoping for simple conversation.

At that moment, my phone rings on the kitchen counter. Great. I reach for it reflexively, sure it’s some new fire I need to put out—a bout of kennel cough, maybe bickering employees—until I notice Anton following my movement. He’s watching without comment, but there’s a familiar wariness in his posture as I grasp the phone. I hesitate. Both my businesses are closed. Maybe whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. I turn the ringer to silent and leave it sitting on the counter.

“Umm, how was your day?” I ask, settling into a chair.

He arches an eyebrow, then takes a bowl of steaming broccoli off the counter and sits too. “Okay. How about yours?”

I’d been hoping he’d share just a tiny bit before turning it around on me. It’s not like Anton’s usually a chatterbox, but our conversation has been especially spare the last few days since we started this dance around the new elephant in the room.

He serves me a square of lasagna, and I try to think of something else to say. I really want to tell him about the meeting with Charlotte, get his opinion on all the pros and cons of selling or not selling the Pooches. And all that money. But I’m getting the vibe this isn’t the time to talk about work.

“Did I tell you Celia had her baby? A boy. Last week.”

He pauses, hovering his fork over his plate. Something passes through his eyes, but isn’t there long enough for me to read. “Right. Tell her congratulations. She and Adam must be happy.”

I clear my throat. “They named him Gabriel Edward Cohen. After both grandfathers.”

His eyes widen. Anton’s known my mom and sister long enough that I’m sure he’s as surprised to hear this as I was.

“Anyway, I think my mom might be more excited about her new status as a grandma than she is about the kid,” I mutter.

His eyes flicker to mine. It’s a small thing, but with this show of sympathy, it’s clear he’s already guessed my feelings about that situation, and I’m grateful for it.

“Is Marion behaving herself?” he asks carefully.

I shrug. “Honestly, I’ve been avoiding her.”

“Good,” he says with a hint of pride. “I’m glad you’re protecting yourself from her garbage.”

“Poor Celia is probably getting the brunt of it.” I roll my eyes. “Though Mom made it clear we’re next on her grandchild-delivery list.”

The words pass my lips before I think them through, and just like that, I’ve drawn attention to the elephant again. Anton’s been wanting to start a family for a while now. Really, since around the time his mom got sick. But present circumstances have left all of that up in the air.

We both focus on our plates, mechanically making the food disappear. I wish I could walk the conversation back a few minutes. “Um, have you spoken to Seth? Is your mom still doing better?” I ask.

Anton pauses, his expression darkening. “Ah, yeah. The new place is better, but...” He sighs. “The doctors think she’s been having, like, mini-strokes.”

I set my fork down and study him. “What does that mean?”

A line cuts across his forehead. “Nothing, really. It’s just part of the progression.”

I reach out, placing my hand over his, and my skin tingles where we touch. He gives me a sharp look, and I think he’s going to snatch his hand away, but his jaw—no, his whole body—stiffens, and he remains as he is.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

I sit there, wondering if I ought to lean in, offer him a hug or something more than a pat on the hand. His comment about our marriage being more of a friendship still haunts me. But I hesitate too long.

He exhales and stands. “Are you done with your plate?”

“Um, yes.” I jump up. “I’ve got the dishes. This was delicious, Anton, thank you. We should really cook more often.”

---