Page 40 of Joy to Noel
“Now that we have a regular-sized fridge and freezer, we can actually stock up enough to not have to make grocery trips every few days,” Madison says as she tosses ground turkey into the cart. Her use of the term “we” sends a warm buzz through my veins, but I shake it off as I follow her.
“How do you feel about tofu?” Madison asks as we approach the fresh produce section.
“I’m fine with it,” I say. “One of my favorite dishes my grandma used to make was a pan-fried tofu.” I kick myself for offering up the information as I see Madison’s eyes flare with interest.
She quickly reins in her expression, though, before nonchalantly asking, “Oh? When’s the last time you had it?” She busies herself adding two packages of tofu to the cart instead of making eye contact.
Giving in, I say, “I haven’t seen my grandparents for about three years. It’s harder for them to travel so far now, but I can’t really break away from work long enough to make a trip to London worthwhile.”
Madison peruses the lettuce options as she says, “Not being able to see them must be tough. Will you see your parents and sister while you’re in Arkansas, at least?” She’s forced a casual tone of voice that does nothing to hide her intense interest in my answer.
Fighting a smile, I shake my head. “I see what you’re doing, and I’m not biting.”
She drops the carefree pretense and pins me with a stare. “You’re no fun. Why don’t I get to uncover the mystery of Liam Park’s family and childhood?”
“It’s not like you’ve told me anything about your family or childhood,” I counter. “Aside from never wanting to go back to live at the Nebraska farm, you’ve said nothing about your upbringing. I don’t even know if you have siblings.”
She huffs as she adds a bag of romaine hearts to the cart, along with carrots and bell peppers. “I have an older sister and a younger brother. My sister lives in Omaha with her husband and daughter, and my brother lives on the farm with his wife. They have a separate farmhouse from my parents, but they’ll swap houses someday when my dad decides to retire and my brother takes over the farm.” She glances up at me, placing a hand on her hip. “There. My family history.”
I snort a laugh. “I hardly call that a ‘family history.’ More like a recitation of the members of your family tree.” She rolls her eyes as she turns away to lead us down an aisle of dry goods. I ask, “Why don’t you want to go back to the farm?”
She chews her lip and doesn’t respond as she reaches for a bag of jasmine rice. “Why didn’t you like growing up in a small town?” she asks instead of answering.
We face each other there in the aisle, Madison’s hands death-gripping the bag of rice, and mine the bar of the grocery cart. Neither of us says anything.
There’s a war being waged in the limbic system of my brain, opposing emotions fighting against each other. Tell Madison more about myself—deepening our connection into a genuine friendship—or guard anything that could be used against me in the future?
After a long minute of silence, Madison plops the rice into the cart and moves down the aisle to the pasta.
In my core, there's a sinking disappointment over which side of the war won out.
Chapter nineteen
Madison
Liam hovers over my left shoulder as I move the pan-fried chicken onto a plate and dump chopped zucchini into the same pan I used for the chicken. I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, attempting to move a strand of hair that freed itself from my ponytail. When Liam leans even closer to peer into the pan, I jab him with a sharp elbow to the side. Hamlet meows dramatically at Liam’s feet, acting as the guard dog version of a cat while also maintaining his disdainful cat caricature.
I give Hamlet an evil glare before glancing up at Liam. “Are you going to hang around watching me every time I cook dinner?” I ask, forcing annoyance into my tone. Because, really, his proximity is flustering me in an entirely different way than annoyance.
Especially when he’s dressed in jeans and a maroon T-shirt that fits perfectly across his chest and biceps. This casual look is far different than the suits or athleisure I’ve seen him in thus far. It’s unfair that something as basic as a T-shirt and jeans would be stopping my lungs from fully inflating.
“I’m just trying to learn from your cooking process. This is almost like creating a standard operating procedure, but for food instead of a company,” he says, sounding genuinely intrigued.
I can’t help but smile at his comment as I scoop out a half cup of pasta water before draining the cooked rigatoni noodles in the sink. After dumping the cooked zucchini onto the same plate as the chicken, I add butter to the pan and crack lots of fresh pepper into it.
“Does this dish have a name? Or just . . . minimalist pasta?” Liam asks.
I shrug as I stir the pepper and butter around the pan. “Eh, I suppose it’s a version ofcacio e pepe.”
“Caci-what?” Liam asks. I look over to see his furrowed brow.
“Cacio e pepe—it’s a simple, classic Italian pasta dish. Surely you’ve seen it on a menu at one of your many fancy business dinners,” I say.
Liam shakes his head. “Ah, nope. I’m not the schmoozer taking clients out to wine and dine their business. That’s a different department.”
“What are you, then?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes and looks up, as though lost in thought. “I’m the diagnostic specialist coming in and telling people what they don’t want to hear. Or maybe the emergency room doctor performing triage and the surgeon correcting what’s wrong all rolled into one.”
