Page 60 of Second Chance with Seth

“Thanks for that, Everly. It meant a lot.”

“It meant a lot to me, too.”

“I’ve got so much to learn.”

I smile up at him. “So have I. They don’t come with instructions, unfortunately, so I’m just doing what works for us.”

“You’re doing it very well,” he says and I blush.

“Sh—Shall we have something to eat?” I say and he nods his head, letting me lead the way into the kitchen, where I rinse out the bottle, and Seth leans on the countertop beside me.

“Did you try breastfeeding?” he asks, clearly desperate for information.

“Yeah, but I found it really painful. The pregnancy might have been quite easy, but breastfeeding was a bitch.”

He chuckles. “I enjoyed feeding her, so I’m not sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Neither am I,” I say and he looks down at me as I dry my hands and head for the refrigerator.

I’ve got all the ingredients to make one of Seth’s favorites, which is spicy chicken and rice, and I pull out everything I need, pouring us a glass of wine each before I start cooking.

“Did you make any other changes?” Seth asks, sipping at his drink while I chop an onion.

“Not really. Other than closing the coffee shop an hour earlier than I used to, which I did because I was struggling to get River to bed at a reasonable hour, and still get everything done.” I glance around the apartment. “Although, as you can see, I’m still not doing very well with that.”

“You’re doing just fine,” he says, then bends over and kisses my cheek before he puts down his glass and wanders into the living area, where he picks up his coat, hanging it up on the hook behind the door, and then grabs my apron and takes it to through to the bathroom. I know he’ll have put it in the laundry hamper, and I get on with preparing our meal as he tidies the living room, putting the toys in the lidded box by the far wall, and closing the magazines, leaving them on the coffee table.

The place is transformed, and as I add the rice to the pan, he comes back over and I look up at him.

“Thank you,” I say.

“What for?”

“Tidying up.” I would have thought that was obvious.

“Would you have thanked me before, when we were living together?” he asks. “If you were cooking our meal, and I cleared up the apartment, would you have thanked me then?”

“No, but…”

“But nothing,” he says, leaning in and kissing my cheek again. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

The dinner only takes about another ten minutes to cook, and during that time, Seth sets the table and tops up our wine. Then I dish up and we sit opposite each other in what used to be our home for the first time in nearly a year.

I’ve felt quite comfortable having him here until now, even when he was tidying up after me, but for some reason this feels strained, and as we sit and eat, I wonder if he’s feeling the same.

“This tastes amazing,” Seth says, breaking the awkward silence. “I’d forgotten how good it was.”

“You’ve never made it for yourself?” I ask, sipping my wine.

“No. This was always your speciality.”

“While you made a mean steak, I seem to recall.”

“I’ve expanded my repertoire a little,” he says. “I’ve added a few pasta dishes, and Aiden says my stir-fry is passable.”

“Passable?”

“Yeah. I think that’s mostly because he doesn’t like stir-fry very much.”

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