Page 96 of Yearn
My mother never needed to cook. She had her own medical practice to focus on.
My father had one too.
But here I was. . .cooking for my new family.
My bare feet smoothed along the tile.
My sleeves were rolled up; my forearms were damp from rinsing broccoli.
Okay. This is next. At least that’s what the recipe says. . .
I moved between pots and pans like it was another kind of operating room, mise en place my sterile field, tongs my forceps.
I hope dinner doesn’t taste like shit.
The kitchen knife steadied in my hand the same way a scalpel did—except this time, I was cutting to keep them alive in comfort, not survival.
I think it’s time to get her a chef. I’ll tell her next week.
I wasn’t sure how she would take it. It seemed like Teyonah was not used to accepting gifts from someone who cared about her.
I looked over my shoulder.
Just off the hall, Teyonah’s office door stood ajar.
She’ll have to get used to it. I want to spoil her.
Instead of staying at the firm late, she’d brought home the last stack of filings for her supervisor’s big case and set herself a promise: finish tonight so she could do bedtime herself.
She hated that she missed the kids’ bedtimes last night.
Therefore, I wanted her to get her promise.
But I also knew that paperwork had a way of multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish. Even from here, I heard the crisp slide of pages and the mutter she made when a sentence didn’t behave.
That was why I decided to cook for her. Maybe that could help her get it done faster.
I just hope this doesn’t taste bad.
Several minutes later, I set the platter of chicken on the counter and checked the hallway again, half expecting her to appear in the doorway the way she did in my head all day: pencil in her hair, eyes sharp, tired, and unfairly beautiful.
The sway of her body was the kind of anatomy they never taught in med school—curves mapped for a surgeon who wanted to lose the steadiness in his hand.
Mmmm. We’re fucking tonight. I can’t hold back anymore.
I leaned my hips against the counter and swallowed. If I let myself go where that thought wanted me, dinner would burn.
Concentrate on dinner.
I pulled two sheet pans from the oven and turned the broccoli, making sure the edges were crisp and bright.
Next, I listened for kid-noises—J’s soft footfalls, Oliver tumbling somewhere.
The chicken needed five more minutes. I put it back in the oven.
The rice needed ten.
Alright. I’m getting the hang of this.
