Page 55 of By the Letter

“In the kitchen,” I returned, grateful there was no tremble in my voice.

A moment later, he strode in, placing a bag of oranges on my island. “What’s cooking?”

“Lasagna.” I peered at my creation. The cheese was bubbly, but this pregnancy had caused my sense of taste and smell to bemore than a little off, so I wasn’t sure if the aroma was mouth-watering or tear-inducing. “I’m teaching myself to cook. Well…trying. I’m not sure it’s going well. I didn’t have a chance to learn to cook from my mother, and Frank had a chef, so I never got around to learning.”

“Are you learning for our boy?” he asked.

I nodded. “It feels like a skill I should have before he’s here. I can’t feed him grilled cheese for every meal, and that’s the extent of my culinary skills at the moment.”

My nerves went haywire as Roman picked up one of the cranberry gingerbread muffins I’d made the day before. “Did you make this?”

“I did.”

I bit down on my bottom lip as he peeled the wrapper off and popped a piece into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes flaring. I couldn’t quite decipher his expression, but my breath caught in my throat as I waited for his verdict.

Finally, he swallowed. “Wow, that was gingery.”

“Oh no,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. “Was it that bad?”

His mouth fell open, his eyes rounding, stricken with panic. He really didn’t like it when I cried. Neither did I, for that matter. What kind of mother would I be if I couldn’t even make a simple muffin?

“Absolutely not.” He stuffed another piece of muffin in his mouth, chewing and swallowing faster this time. “Delicious, Shira. It’s like a taste of Christmas.”

My cheeks flamed. I thought I might’ve messed up royally when I’d accidentally tripled the amount of ginger, but if he thought my muffins were delicious, I couldn’t have screwed up that badly.

“Thank you. You’ll have to try my lasagna. I hope you haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

“I came straight here from the office. Feed me.”

He cleared his throat a few times as he took a glass from my cupboard and filled it with water from the refrigerator. I almost got distracted by the way his throat bobbed with each deep pull but forced myself to turn away and plate lasagna and salad for us both.

I dug into my salad first, watching Roman as he took a bite of the lasagna. He was a careful chewer, but once he got started eating, he really shoveled it in. Curious if it was as good as he was making it seem, I tried a piece and immediately grimaced. I’d spilled a little—okay, alot—extra from my jar of minced garlic, but I’d thought it would probably cook off. Plus, I loved garlic. There was no such thing as too much. Except maybe there was. And the pepper I’d added to even it out hadn’t exactly done the job.

Roman seemed to be enjoying it immensely, though. It had to be my screwy taste buds lying to me. I wished I could enjoy it as much as he obviously was. He’d barely taken a breath in between bites, scarfing it down like he was starving.

I ate my salad with the same gusto and broke off pieces of the fluffy French bread I’d bought on the way home. Apparently, my palate wanted bland and simple. I’d make the lasagna again after I had the baby so I could enjoy it.

Roman was almost finished with his meal, but I couldn’t imagine he was full. A man his size surely always had seconds. Probably thirds. He might not ask for more, thinking he should leave it for me, but I couldn’t possibly eat another bite. If I did, it wouldn’t stay down.

“Turns out I’m not in the mood for pasta tonight.” I picked up my plate and held it out to him. “Here, you seem like you’re starving. Eat mine.”

Roman looked up from his plate, which he’d just scraped clean. The protest registered in his eyes and open mouth, buthe clamped it shut and accepted, transferring my lasagna to his plate.

Once he’d cleaned his plate a second time, and I’d eaten half a loaf of bread along with my salad, he insisted on cleaning up. Since I knew he wouldn’t allow me to help, and I was tired, I settled on my new couch.

Roman had bought me a pale-gray sectional that felt like angels had filled it with clouds. It had arrived three weeks ago, and I’d fallen asleep on it more times than I cared to admit.

He strode into the living room a few minutes later, his jaw working as he chewed a piece of gum and settled on a cushion beside me.

“You were right,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? About what?”

“The couch. I love this one.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as his face split into a wide grin. “I’m glad. I have a larger version at my place. It’s been tested by all my brothers and withstands us.”

“I’m sure the other one would have been fine, but…I like this one better. Thank you.”

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