Page 20 of Against All Odds

“I married him because he was decent. After the way I grew up, I wanted decent.Desperately.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “Then he knocked up his assistant, who’s a freaking kid, and I realized he was just like all the creeps I’d been battling my whole life. Men who thought they could put a hand on me at school, at foster homes, at work….”

He cradled my face with both his hands and brushed his lips against mine. “You don’t ever have to worry about that with me.”

He was telling me that if we embarked on a relationship, I wouldn’t have to worry about him cheating on me. I already knew that. There was a solid and palpable integrity about Heath.

“But I also want to let you know that I’monlylooking for companionship, affection, and friendship.” He smiled and smoothed my hair. “Is that okay?”

He was being up front, and I appreciated that. And the truth was that I didn’t have the time or faith for anything beyond what he was offering. “I’m not expecting anything beyond respect and kindness, Heath.”

“That I can do.”

I went on tiptoe and bravely kissed him on the mouth. “Now, I heard about you cooking us dinner.”

He understood my need for levity. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Skiing does that. Come on, Bambi, you can be my sous chef.”

I didn’t expect Heath to cook for me. Jack had never done that, and in all my years of marriage, I’d been the one to plan the meals, shop for the groceries, and somehow still be the one to be criticized when the food wasn’t up to par, especially when we had company.

The idea of sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of delicious white wine while someone else did all the work felt downright foreign and decadent.

“What are we eating?” I asked as I tore the lettuce for the salad. This was the only task he’d given me because I’d nagged him, saying Iwantedto be his sous chef. He told me a good sous chef drinks wine and stays out of the way of the culinary genius.

“Pasta vongole.”

“Fancy.”

He laughed. “They had some nice-looking clams at Roxy’s. I couldn’t resist.”

He had texted me to check if I had any allergies, and when I told him I didn’t and ate everything except pickles, he’d replied with a thumbs-up emoji.

“And, of course, a simple salad that you are making with your fine hands.” He waved his spatula at the salad bowl.

“I slave and slave and slave,” I joked.

“Hey, I’m not the one who pleaded to help out,” he teased as he expertly chopped garlic cloves.

“I feel weird not helping.”

“I’m grateful for all the help I get.” He tossed thechopped garlic and herbs in a pan where olive oil had been heating up.

It was obvious that he enjoyed cooking and did it quite a bit. You could tell by the way he moved around the kitchen and how he handled ingredients.

“I’ll admit” —I popped a cherry tomato in my mouth— “this is a first for me. Usually, I’m the one doing the slaving over the stove.”

He turned to face me, leaning casually against the counter. “Always?”

I nodded, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Jack wasn’t much of a cook or lettuce shredder.” I regretted my words. I didn’t want to be a cliché who talked about her ex with a man she was on a date with.

“Well” —he smiled at me softly— “tonight, you’re not lifting a finger…well, beyond what you already have. I’ve got this.”

His simple kindness made my heart flutter. I wasn’t used to being taken care of, and it was heady, intoxicating.

“Yes, Chef.”

Dinner was perfect.

---