Page 152 of Can You Take It?

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

I pull the lasagna out of the oven, the cheesy, bubbly dish looking halfway decent. “Moment of truth,” I say, slicing into it and serving a piece to Richard.

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Fuck, this is good.”

“Really?” I ask, skeptically.

“Really,” he insists, taking the dish from me. “In fact, it’s so good that you’ll have to make yourself another batch.”

I snatch the dish back. “Oh, hell no. I want to taste it.”

We engage in a tug-of-war over the lasagna. “Come on, share!” I protest, trying to wrestle a piece away from him.

He grins, holding it out of my reach. “Nope, all mine. You said it was the moment of truth. Let me have my moment.”

I finally manage to grab a forkful and shove it in my mouth. My taste buds are instantly assaulted by a combination of undercooked pasta and way too much salt. I struggle to chew and swallow.

“Shit!” I gasp, reaching for my water glass. “This is terrible!” I chug the water, desperate to rid myself of the disgusting taste.

Richard is laughing so hard he’s nearly doubled over. “It tastes good to me!” he manages to say between laughs.

I glare at him, but I can't stop the smile tugging at my lips. “You’re a fucking lying liar.”

“Hey, I wasn’t lying,” he says, still chuckling. “Maybe I just love your cooking too much to care.”

“Or maybe you just have horrible taste,” I scowl.

“Maybe I just love everything you do, even if it’s making the world’s worst lasagna.”

I roll my eyes but feel a warm flutter in my chest. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“And you love me for it,” he replies, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“Yeah, I do,” I admit softly, resting my head against his chest.

He kisses the top of my head. “Let’s order pizza. We’ll let the pros handle dinner tonight.”

“Good idea,” I say, relieved. “I think I’ll leave the cooking to the experts from now on.”

After the pizza arrives, we dig in, savoring the greasy, cheesy goodness. It’s a relief not to worry about cooking and just enjoy the moment with Richard. Once we’ve finished eating, I stretch and lean back against the couch.

“Time for some wine,” I suggest.

He raises an eyebrow. “Wine? You trying to get me drunk, woman?”

“Maybe,” I tease, grinning. “Would Wilson have your badge over a glass of wine?”

“He’d probably have my badge over the lasagna,” Richard laughs. “But he can’t fire me for relaxing at home with my girl.”

“Good point,” I say, getting up. “I’ll get the wine. I owe you that much for making you suffer through my cooking.”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, starting to rise.

I gently push him back down. “Nope. You stay. You’ve earned it. Consider it a peace offering.”

He nods, settling back into his seat. “Alright, I’ll let you play hostess.”

I walk to the kitchen and fill two glasses with wine. With a trembling hand, I reach for the upper compartment and pull out a Xanax. I drop it into his glass, watching it dissolve.

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