Page 87 of Broken Daddy

“It was the first ‘difficult’ dish I learned how to make,” I explain, returning to dicing as the broth on the stovetop heats. “I think I had to prove to myself that I could be a chef, because no one else in my life really thought I could.”

Nate is silent, staring down at the squash now browning gently in a pan. Then he asks, “What about Russ?”

“Oh, Russ was always supportive. But I think even he had some doubts. In the foster homes I stayed in, it was mostly quick sandwiches and cereal. So Russ hadn’t ever seen me make a meal, you know?”

I know where his train of thought goes. Talking about Russ makes him think about what Russ doesn’t know, which has him glancing down at my belly. Which prompts him to ask, “How was the appointment today?”

His voice is quiet, wary, as if he expects me to get upset or shut down.

Instead, I take a deep breath. This is his baby, too, even if things between us aren’t permanent. He at least deserves to know how things are going.

“Everything’s good. I’m a little over two months now, and the OB-GYN said the fingers and toes are developing.” It’s quiet for a moment as I decide whether or not to tell him the next part. This was my second appointment, and Nate wasn’t there. I didn’t ask him to come along and he didn’t ask. Though, by the way he lingered around the house this morning, a part of me thinks he wanted to.

“I got to hear the heartbeat.”

Something physical happens to him at the words. He blinks, his hand with the wooden spoon in it going still. When he exhales, it’s like he’s deflating and my heart pangs with guilt.

I should have asked if he wanted to come. I should have put that crappy conversation behind us, or at least pushed it to the side.

Then time catches up to us again and he takes a deep breath, stirs the contents in the pan. “That’s good. Good to know you two are healthy. If you need anything…”

The strain in his voice is so palpable it breaks my heart a little bit. I can feel how bad he wants to get over this mess, but there’s still news I need to tell him. And better to do it now than keep pretending everything’s okay.

But I don’t get to, because we switch positions so I can take the squash off the burner and Nate takes over with the risotto. “Like this?”

I nod, busying myself with getting the other ingredients together as well as a measuring cup to dip out the broth. Over the next ten minutes, we work in silence, Nate’s muscular arm taut and then relaxed as he stirs, his nervous gaze on the pan.

“Uh, Gen? How do I know when to add more broth?”

Distracted by trying to find the rosemary and thyme, I come back to his side. “Oh! Okay—here.”

Dipping out about a cup of broth, I put it down on the counter and then squirm my way under his stirring arm. One hand goes almost around his waist, resting on his hip, to steady myself at the awkward angle.

Nate tenses up for a moment. Then he shifts to the side a bit so I can fit in next to him easier.

“Here—see this?” I wrap my hand over his much larger one and we drag the spoon across the pan. The thickened broth mixed in with the risotto settles but doesn’t move in to fill the gap. “See how it’s staying in place like that? That’s when we add more broth. We do that four more times until the risotto is cooked and the broth isn’t thin anymore.”

He reaches over me as I duck and picks up the cup of broth. His movements are a little clunky and I grin, imagining him trying to cook in here for Eva when he didn’t have a chef.

Completely forgetting about the herbs, I end up settling in against Nate and watching. His actions are a little more comfortable and natural now. Almost hypnotic, which is part of why I’ve always loved cooking.

It quiets the mind.

Eventually, I extricate myself and get back to prepping. I pull two beautiful small white bowls down and get out spoons. Then I grab the bread I bought at the farmer’s market the other day. It’s still crisp on the outside but has a give and a yeasty scent that makes my mouth water.

“I think it’s done.”

When I join Nate again, his scent lingers in my nose. Pine, wood, thatman-smell that’s indescribable but enticing.

“Perfect. Okay, take it off the burner and let’s mix in the squash.”

The two of us work together seamlessly. That hits me as odd; after all, I’ve only really known Nathan for a few months now. But even with his inexperience in a kitchen, we move around each other comfortably, Nate spooning out risotto as I top it with squash and herbs.

We stand back, taking a look at our work. To get a better view, Nate stands behind me, bracketing me in with his hands on either side of me on the counter.

“This looks delicious.”

“Mmm,” I agree, distracted by the heat of his body. I want so badly to press mine back into him.

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