Page 141 of Mother Parker
HWAN
18 months later
“Honey, I’m home!” I sang as I let myself in, cups in hand and the biggest smile on my face.
Nothing pleased me more than seeing my shop brimming with laughter and tea. Nothing but my beautiful man.
“Welcome, my king,” he said, doing a dramatic bow from the stove, and I rolled my eyes but leaned over the kitchen island to plant a kiss on my man.
“What good are you cooking, baby?”
I raised an eyebrow and inspected the contents of the frying pan. Bacon, pancetta, and garlic gloves swimming in butter.
“Oh God,” I said before he even answered.
“Hey!” he groaned. “I swear it’ll be good this time.”
I sat back with a laugh.
“Yeah, you know what they say. The six hundred and twenty-seventh time is the charm!” I said.
The glare he gave me could have been a gut punch, but I just laughed it off. My baby might have many talents, but cooking was not one of them. We were still looking into whether it was hereditary because I didn’t think my or Halmeoni’s heart could take it if our kids were useless with a skillet.
Not that we were in any rush to have them. At least, I wasn’t. We hadn’t even been together for two years. There was no chance I was discussing kids until at least then.
“I hate you and your smug face,” he hissed at me.
“Please, that’s not what you were yelling last night. Or do I need to remind you who was begging for my love stick?”
He gave one of those cute frowns that meant absolutely nothing to me—because I knew they were fake as fuck, of course—and I put the cups on the counter so I could cross my hands.
“I used no such term,” he said.
“Forgive me. Maybe you were just shouting, ‘Give it to me.’ The details are blurry, but the sentiment’s the same. You don’t hate me, and you never will.”
He held my gaze, his intense dark eyes burning with what passed for frustration around here before he dropped the act and laughed.
“Yeah, fine. I don’t hate you.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
He removed the pan from the stove and repeated the process he’d done over and over again without much success.
Okay, truth be told, he was gettingslightlybetter, but somehow he always managed to fuck something up, be it the seasoning, crispness, or rawness of whatever food he tried to make.
Sometimes it was edible.
Most times, I had to take over, which only frustrated me when I was tired.
But even then, I couldn’t really stay mad at him. He was so adorable, trying so hard to cook for me, to please me, to love me.
He always did. Every single day.
Who could stay mad at that?
“Is that what I think it is?” he asked, looking down at the cups I’d placed on the counter.
“Do you need to ask?” I told him and handed him one. “One Mother Parker for my motherfucker.”
