Page 34 of Twilight Tides
“Hey.” I laid the grocery bag on the counter opposite the island and faced him. “Whatcha cooking?”
Murray’s lips quirked at the corner. “Nothing fancy. Marry Me Chicken Pasta. Felt appropriate.”
I chuckled at the joke, relaxing at his teasing, as I wandered over to the island to take a closer look. “Nice. What is Marry Me Chicken Pasta exactly?”
“It’s a recipe Kelly sent to me. She’s always sending me stuff from social media, but we both liked this one.” He studied me as I rounded the island to peer into the pot. “Though it occurred to me about half an hour ago I’m cooking for a professional chef, and this might not be up to snuff.”
“Are you kidding?” I grinned. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone cooked for me that wasn’t being paid to do it?”
His expression softened. “Aye?”
“Yeah. It smells good.” I glanced around for ingredients, but Murray must work like a professional, cleaning as he cooked. “Do you mind?” I gestured to the wooden spoon.
“Go ahead.”
I took it and tasted the sauce, my brows rising … because itwasgood. “Chicken, thyme, garlic, parmesan, tomatoes … red pepper flakes?”
“Aye. Some basil, heavy cream, chicken broth, and black pepper. That’s some palate you’ve got there.”
“Yeah, you can develop your palate, you know. Mine has gotten better over time. Anyway, this is tasty.” The rigatoni pasta was already boiled and waiting for the sauce.
“Good,” Murray murmured, dipping his gaze, but I got the feeling he was pleased by my assessment.
“You know what else is good? The music. I can’t believe you listen to Lord Huron.”
Murray raised a brow. “You’re a fan?”
“Yeah, huge. I saw them live about five years ago.”
“Me too. They played Glasgow a few years back.”
“I am totally checking out your music collection after dinner.”
“Music a big thing for you?”
“Huge. My mom and dad wanted me to grow up and be a surgeon like them, so they started me on piano lessons when I was three. The tutor thought I was way too young, but my parents insisted. They made me keep up the lessons for years and while I resented the hell out of them for it, I did fall in love with music.”
“Were you good?”
I nodded. “Julliard’s precollege division was very interested in me, but the stage fright I felt performing in public never went away with practice. Plus my parents were kind of horrifiedat the prospect of me becoming a musician. They only got me into piano to strengthen my dexterity and precision so I could become a surgeon.” Even I could hear the bitterness in my voice. “They refused to let me audition, so between that and the stage fright I stopped practicing. They got so fed up arguing with me about it they let it go. I only ever played again when they weren’t home, which was a lot, so …” I blew out an embarrassed breath. “Poor little rich girl. I know.”
Murray didn’t smile at my self-deprecation. “Your parents weren’t around a lot? Who taught you to cook?”
“Definitely not my parents. My dad’s mom, my nana, moved in with us when I was eleven. She hated New York, but she had a heart condition and when my grandfather died, my dad didn’t want her living alone. I think he kind of bullied her into moving into our apartment. But for a while, I had a real parent in her. Mom and Dad avoided the house even more because she held a mirror up to them about not being good parents to me.
“Nana taught me to cook, and it was the happiest time in my life. It only lasted two years because she passed away, but those two years changed everything for me. There was something about how much joy it brought her to feed people and see how much they liked her food … I caught the bug.” Feeling suddenly vulnerable at having shared so much, I pushed away from the island. “Let me put my groceries away and set the table. Where are your plates?”
Murray directed me, going with the subject change. I set the table that was in the connected living room next door. We both opted for water with our dinner, so I poured some and then retrieved cutlery, making small talk as we moved around the kitchen.
Not long later we sat next to each other at the dining table. I’d deliberately set Murray at the head and me beside him. If he wondered at the choice, he didn’t say anything.
After my first bite of pasta, I sensed him watching me, as if waiting to see if I approved.
It was kind of hot.
I smiled. “It’s very good. Thank you.”
Pleased, he nodded. “You’re welcome.”
