Page 73 of Nine Week Nanny
"What's first, cheese master?" I open the fridge, scanning the shelves the housekeeper stocked yesterday.
"Veggies!" Lennon points to the produce drawer. "Mom always put secret veggies in the sauce."
My heart warms at this glimpse into his life before. "Secret veggies, huh? It's not a secret if you know, now is it?"
I grab an onion, carrots, and a zucchini while Lennon climbs onto a stool at the counter. I place a cutting board in front of him and hand him the onion.
"This is a dangerous job. Do you think you can handle it?"
"Oh, yeah. I can. How is it dangerous?"
"Onions make my eyes water. See if your eyes water when you peel off this layer." I show him how to peel back the top layers.
He nods, face scrunched in concentration as he carefully pulls off the papery outer edge. I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, watching him from the corner of my eye.
There's something so naturally comfortable about this moment, a perfect segue from the emotional moment we just shared. He's learning that it’s safe to feel sadness and then keep picking up and moving forward.
Pope appears in the doorway, his phone no longer in hand. His eyes take in the scene. Lennon is focused on his task, and I'm moving between the counter and the stove.
"Need any help?" He steps into the kitchen, pushing up his sleeves. "You can put me to work."
"We're making secret sauce," Lennon announces without looking up.
I smile. "We need someone to cook the ground beef. Think you can handle that?"
Pope raises an eyebrow. "I'm not completely useless in a kitchen."
"We'll see about that." I hand him a package of beef and a pan.
Our fingers brush during the handoff, and that now-familiar electricity zips through me. I turn away quickly, focusing on the tomatoes I need to dice.
The kitchen fills with the sounds of cooking—the sizzle of beef, the gentle bubbling of boiling water, the rhythmic tap of my knife against the cutting board. Pope stands at the stove, stirring occasionally, while Lennon proudly takes a bite of a carrot.
"Perfect for sauce," I tell him, and his smile brightens the room. "You always have to taste-test the ingredients."
"Can I add the pasta to the water?" Lennon asks when the water boils.
"Absolutely." I lift him so he can pour the pasta in safely.
Pope watches us, a soft expression replacing his usually guarded features. "You two make a good team."
"Three," Lennon corrects, pointing to the beef Pope is browning. "You're doing the meat part."
Pope's face does something complicated. If I had to guess, it’s surprise melting into pleasure. "You're right. Team of three."
We move around each other with surprising ease, passing ingredients, stirring pots, Lennon directing us from his perch. When Pope reaches across me for the salt, his chest brushes my back, and he lingers just a moment longer than necessary.
And I like it.
The stars flickerlike scattered sequins across the night sky.
I settle deeper into the cushioned lounger, swirling the last sip of Pinot Grigio in my glass. Pope sits in the chair beside me, his sparkling water catching the moonlight.
"You're sure you don't want some? It's a good bottle." I offer my glass toward him.
Pope shakes his head. "I'm good with this."
"I hope I'm not being too forward, but I noticed you never drink alcohol."
