Page 8 of The Make-Believe Marriage

“This is for you.” She holds a bottle of wine out to me while Bob Martin hands Krysten a bouquet of flowers. They are bright and cheerful, and for some reason, strike me as perfect for her.

Krysten’s eyes light up, and a strange sense of pride runs through me when I realize I was right. She likes them. “I’ll go put those into some water. Why don’t you take Mr. and Mrs. Martin to the dining room and get everyone a glass of wine?”

“Please, call me Lydia. Is there anything I can do to help?” Mrs. Martin asks.

Krysten shakes her head, and I motion for the couple to follow me through the living room and into the dining room, bypassing the kitchen and any possible remaining evidence of our little meal prep deception.

“And you can call me Bob.” He holds his hand out to her and shakes it a little longer than necessary, wrapping a second hand around hers. I glance at Lydia, but it doesn’t seem to bother her the way it does me.

“Wine?” I ask, in an effort to get everyone moving.

“Please.” Lydia moves through the living room with me, with Bob following close behind.

By the time Krysten returns with the flowers and sets them in the center of the dining room table, everyone has a glass of wine.

Handing Krysten hers, I propose a toast. “To a good meal with good friends.”

“Good plan, Tom. I’m starving.” Bob claps me on the shoulder, almost making me spill wine all over the beautifully set table.

“In that case, why don’t I get us started with the first course?” Krysten puts her wine down, and I follow her into the kitchen.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

“I’ll ladle, you carry.” She points to the tray where four small soup bowls are waiting. The chef from Rooted sent over a container of cream of asparagus soup and a small bag of croutons. Not something we’d ordered, but I was sure it would go well with the rest of the meal and it was a nice touch.

“This is delicious. You’ll have to give me the recipe,” Lydia says after her first taste of the dish.

“I’ll email it to you.” Krysten’s cheeks only turn the slightest hint of pink. It’s easily explained as embarrassment at the compliment.

“You’ve both done a nice job with this place. Tom, you said you did most of the restorations yourself?” Bob asks.

Relieved, I launch into a lengthy discussion of everything I’ve done since I bought the place. It’s a labor of love and something I can talk about for hours.

“Is everyone ready for the main course?” Krysten asks, and I realize I’ve lost the Martins’ interest.

“I’ll help you serve.” Lydia jumps up, and Bob pulls me into a conversation about real estate values in the area. I glance at Krysten. She gives me a confident smile before turning to Lydia to thank her for the help.

“I apologize for the duck. I overcooked it.” Krysten sets the bird in front of me and hands me the carving set that was a housewarming gift from my sister.

“I’m sure it will be fine, and these roasted potatoes and the asparagus look delicious.” Lydia sets two platters on the table before returning to her seat.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here.” I cut into the breast of the duck. It still smells great, but Krysten is right. The skin is charred, and the meat is dry, almost impossible with duck. It reminds me a little of the way my mom fixes her Thanksgiving turkey.

Thankfully, the Martins are good sports and praise the meal, regardless.

“I forgot the rolls.” Krysten jumps up and returns with a basket of steaming-hot bread a few minutes later. That’s when it clicks. The duck must have still been in the oven when she cranked up the heat to bake the rolls.

“I always love roasted asparagus. They serve it with sundried tomatoes like this atRooted. Is that where you got the idea?” Lydia asks, and I hold my breath.

“Sure did. Roll anyone?” Krysten holds up the basket and a piece of paper drops on the table, right in front of Bob.

My heart stops when I realize what it is. The re-heating instructions from the chef, written down on a piece of stationary with the Rooted logo at the top.

“I...I—” I don’t know what to say. My mind has gone blank. Mortified that our little ruse is up, I can’t think of a way to talkmyself out of this. Why did I think it was a good idea to deceive my boss like this? My conscience kicks into another gear, and I try to find the words to make this right. I look at Krysten, and to my surprise, she doesn’t look panicked at all.

“It’s my fault. I can’t cook to save my life, but I wanted to make a good first impression. Everything here is from Rooted. I’m so sorry. Please don’t blame Tom. His only fault was to marry a horrible cook.” Krysten reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it in silent support.

I mouth a silent thank you in her direction.

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