Page 43 of King of Praise

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Instead, I focus on finishing dinner, letting the familiar routine ground me. Everything is almost ready. The chicken is resting, and the table is already set. It’s a humble setting, but I’ve arranged everything with attention to detail the way my mother taught me before she gave up on me being anything but a disappointment.

The memory of her disapproval stings less these days. Perhaps because I’ve finally started to understand her vision for my life—the perfect society wife she wanted me to be—was more about her own frustrated ambitions than my happiness. Or maybe I’m just too preoccupied with immediate survival to worry about old wounds.

You’re stalling, I chide myself. I’ve been wiping the same spot on the counter for several minutes. He needs to eat eventually. The food will get cold.

Decision made. I move to the cabin door, wrapping myself in one of Micah’s oversized flannel shirts. The fabric smells faintly of him—a mix of woodsmoke, pine, and something distinctly masculine that makes my pulse quicken in ways I should ignore but increasingly don’t want to.

The gravel crunches under my feet as I make my way toward the lake. Micah’s shoulders tense at my approach, but he doesn’t turn around. Up close, I can see the rigid set of his jaw beneath his beard, the way his hands grip the fishing rod too tightly.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say softly, careful not to startle him. “Nothing’s biting anyway. It’s too cold.”

He remains silent for a long moment, staring out at the still water. Just as I begin to worry I’ve overstepped, his posture relaxes. “Wasn’t really fishing,” he admits, his deep voice hoarse. “Just needed to think.”

“I figured.” I wrap my arms around myself, suppressing a shiver. “But you can think inside where it’s warm. I made roasted chicken. And fresh bread.”

This draws his attention. He turns to face me finally, and something in his expression shifts as he takes in my appearance—his shirt draped over my dress, my hair escaping its messy bun, flour probably still dusting my face despite wiping it off with the hand towel. The intensity of his gaze makes heat rise to my cheeks.

“You didn’t have to cook,” he says, but he’s already stowing the fishing rod, preparing to follow me back to the cabin.

“I wanted to.” The words come out more forcefully than intended. “I like cooking for—” I catch myself before sayingyou, substituting instead, “—people who appreciate it.”

If he notices my stumble, he doesn’t comment. We walk back to the cabin in comfortable silence, his large frame automatically adjusting his stride to match mine. The comfort of the moment strikes me—this simple act of calling someone in for dinner, knowing food waits warm and ready inside. It’s something I never had with Lucas, whose mealtimes were dictated by his moods rather than any regular schedule.

Inside, the cabin’s warmth envelops us. Micah moves to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the flames. The golden light softens his features, making him look younger somehow, less burdened by the weight of whatever drove him home early today.

I busy myself with final dinner preparations, trying not to stare at the striking figure he cuts against the fireplace. The urge to go to him, to wrap my arms around his broad chest and offer whatever comfort I can, is almost overwhelming. Instead, I channel the impulse into setting out serving dishes, arranging everything just so.

“It smells amazing,” Micah says, finally moving away from the fire. He takes his coat off and hangs it by the door before joining me at the table. His eyes widen as he takes in the spread.

“I hope you’re hungry.” I gesture for him to sit. “I made more than enough.”

He settles into his chair, his size making the rustic furniture seem almost delicate in comparison. “I can see that. Stress baking?”

The question catches me off guard. I pause in the act of serving him, considering my response. “I guess so. Baking helps me relax. Gives me something to do with my hands.”

Micah’s expression clouds briefly. “I’m sorry about how I acted when I came home. It was a difficult day. I shouldn’t have brought that energy home with me.”

Home. The word hangs between us, loaded with implications. This cabin has somehow become more. Not quite a home, perhaps, but something beyond mere shelter.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, finally taking my own seat. “Everyone has bad days. At least you didn’t take it out on me.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Micah’s face darkens with understanding, and I know we’re both thinking of Lucas and how his bad days inevitably ended in bruises and tears.

“I would never—” Micah starts, then stops himself, taking a deep breath. “You’re safe here, Naomi. With me. Whatever else happens, whatever’s going on out there, you never have to worry about that with me.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. I focus on cutting my chicken, blinking back unexpected tears. “I know,” I manage finally. “That’s not what I meant to imply. I just … I appreciate how you handle things. How you respect boundaries.”

He grunts softly in acknowledgment, and we eat in silence for a while. Gradually, the tension eases. I watch from beneath lowered lashes as Micah enjoys the food, satisfaction warming my chest at each bite. When he reaches for a second piece of bread, I can’t suppress a small smile of triumph.

“What?” he asks, catching my expression.

“Nothing.” I try to school my features into neutrality. “Just nice to cook for someone who actually eats.”

“As opposed to?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, the earlier darkness receding.

“Lucas was always on some ridiculous diet,” I explain, surprised by how easily I can say his name in this moment. “Protein shakes and bland chicken breasts. He said my cooking would make him fat.”

Micah’s eyebrows rise. “The man was an idiot about more than just his treatment of you, it seems.”