Page 25 of Secret Southern Promises

“Well, we’re going to need to cook up that chicken,” I said, pulling out the pack of chicken breasts. I opened the freezer and saw a few bags of frozen vegetables stacked on top of each other. “These frozen veggies steam in the bag, so they’d be easy for you to make.”

I glanced back at Boone, expecting him to be looking through the fridge for something else, but he wasn’t. He was looking directly at me, leaning casually against the counter with his arms crossed, his hazel eyes locked on mine like I was the most interesting thing in the room. That look sent my stomach into a flutter, and I had to tear my gaze away.

“Uh, do you have potatoes?” I asked, trying to focus on the task at hand. I couldn’t remember everything he’d picked up at the store the other day, but potatoes would make the meal a little more substantial.

Boone scratched the back of his neck. “I got two in the pantry. That’s about all I have in there besides some crackers and chips.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Well, that’ll do. We don’t need much for this meal.” I grabbed the frozen veggies from the freezer and turned to Boone, holding up the chicken and veggies. “This’ll work.”

He flashed me a grin, and for a second, it was like old times. The easy banter, the way we could communicate with just a glance—it all felt so familiar.

I closed the fridge, feeling a little more settled now that we had a plan. But something dawned on me, and I glanced over at him. “Wait, do you have any spices? This is gonna be a pretty bland meal if you don’t.”

Boone chuckled again, and I could feel the warmth of his laughter filled the room. “I actually do. The first time Chad came over, his wife sent this big basket with ‘essentials every new homeowner needs,’ according to her. There were a few bottles of spices in there. I’ll grab ‘em.”

As he moved toward the pantry, I took a second to breathe. This wasn’t so bad. I could handle this. It was just dinner with Boone, not a walk down memory lane. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself of that, it didn’t stop the flood of feelings that kept creeping up every time he smiled at me or said something that reminded me of how we used to be.

Boone came back with a handful of spice bottles, setting them down on the counter in front of me. “Will these work?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

I looked them over—salt, pepper, garlic powder, paprika, and a BBQ blend. “Yep, these’ll do just fine.”

I set the chicken down on a cutting board after I opened it and started to season it. Boone moved closer to me and watched what I added. I tried to keep my hands steady as Boone watched me, but his presence was impossible to ignore, and it was like he filled the whole room without even trying. Every move I made felt like it was being carefully observed, and not in a bad way. It was just… Boone. He had always had this way of making me feel like I was the center of his universe, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that again.

“So,” Boone said, leaning against the counter, “you really became a chef?”

I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as I rubbed the seasoning into the chicken breasts. “Not really, Boone,” I laughed. “This is just basic cooking. It’s pretty frowned upon if I can’t feed Nash.”

Boone nodded, his expression softening at the mention of Nash. “I have to admit, it’s pretty crazy that you have a kid.”

I smiled, thinking about Nash. “Yeah, I think I’m finally used to being called mom,” I joked.

“I bet,” he whispered.

I held up my dirty hands, feeling the raw chicken slime coating my fingers. “Uh, one thing to remember is to always wash your hands after touching raw chicken. Otherwise, you’ll pretty easily poison yourself.”

Boone tapped his finger to the side of his head like he was making a mental note. “I’ll remember that.”

“Could you turn on the hot water for me?” I asked, holding my hands up like I was about to commit a crime.

We moved over to the sink, and Boone turned on the faucet. Hot water gushed out, swirling with steam, and I wasted no time scrubbing my hands with soap.

“Um, do you want to get a frying pan and the potatoes?” I suggested as I rinsed the last of the suds away.

Boone nodded and went to gather the things I’d asked for while I grabbed the dish towel and dried my hands. It felt good to have something to do—something that didn’t involve standing there gawking at Boone like a schoolgirl with a crush. His kitchen was spotless, the kind of setup you see in those high-end home magazines. Marble countertops gleamed under the soft pendant lights, and there was a large island in the middle with stools lined up neatly. The fridge was one of those stainless steel ones that made my plain white one back at home look like it came from a garage sale. Everything in Boone’s kitchen felt too new, too shiny, like he hadn’t really lived in it yet.

I put the towel down. “The frying pan can go on the stove,” I told him. “And the potatoes can get a quick scrub in the sink. Are you good with baked potatoes?”

Boone set the frying pan on the stove with a soft clink and glanced over at me. “Sounds good to me.” He grabbed thepotatoes and started to scrub them with a focus that made me smile.

Once he finished, I handed him a fork. “Now, poke a few holes in them before we throw them in the oven.”

He took the fork and pierced the potatoes. “You sure these aren’t going to explode or something?” he asked with mock suspicion, raising an eyebrow at me.

I laughed and shook my head. “I promise, they won’t. The holes are so the steam can escape. They just need about forty minutes in there, and they’ll be perfect.”

Boone shrugged like he’d take my word for it, then turned the oven to four hundred and slid the potatoes onto the rack. He stepped back, rubbed his hands together, and eyed the chicken breasts on the counter.

“I have to admit,” he said, leaning against the counter, “I’m kind of terrified of chicken now. I’m not looking to be praying to the porcelain god anytime soon.”

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