Page 101 of Take Me Away

‘You’re going to hate this,’ I warn, watching Kit eye the pile of chopped vegetables like they might stage a revolution. ‘You can still back out. Order fish and chips. Save us all the trauma.’

Kit leans against the counter, arms crossed, looking far too delicious for a man contemplating a vegetarian dinner. He even went and bought all the ingredients in a bigger town because there is no way the Pendletons will sell any of this in their shop. ‘I’m not backing out. I’m just trying to understand what that is.’ He points dubiously at the block of tofu.

‘It’s protein. High in amino acids. Very good for you.’

‘It looks like⁠—’

‘Do not finish that sentence,’ I cut him off, pointing my knife at him. ‘Not with your daughter in the next room.’

His lips twitch, those crinkles around his eyes deepening. ‘I was going to say it looks like feta cheese with an identity crisis.’

‘Liar.’

Maisie bounces into the kitchen, circling us like a curious shark. ‘Is dinner ready yet? I’m starving!’

‘Ten more minutes,’ I promise, trying not to panic at her scrutiny. Cooking for Kit is nerve-wracking enough. Cooking for his miniature food critic is downright terrifying. ‘You can help by setting the table.’

‘Are those mushrooms?’ she asks, wrinkling her nose.

‘Yes, and they’re delicious.’

‘They look like tiny umbrellas for fairies.’

Kit chokes on his beer. ‘That’s … actually accurate.’

I hip-check him. ‘You’re not helping.’

‘I wasn’t trying to,’ he grins, stealing a piece of red pepper from the cutting board. ‘I’m here for moral support and emergency pizza ordering.’

‘I’ve cooked for film crews in the Sahara,’ I inform him, wielding my spatula like a weapon. ‘I think I can handle a stir-fry. Both of you, out of the kitchen before I reconsider this whole thing.’

Kit raises his hands in surrender, but not before his fingers brush the small of my back – a casual touch that sends electricity zipping up my spine.

‘Come on, Maisie. Let’s give the chef some space.’ He lowers his voice to a mock whisper. ‘Just in case we need to call for backup.’

‘I can hear you!’ I call as they retreat to the living room.

Alone in the kitchen, I take a deep breath. It’s just dinner. A simple meal. Not a referendum on whether I can fit into their lives. Not a test of my domestic capabilities versus my red-carpet skills. Not me trying to cook in a kitchen that was painted by another woman.

Except it feels like all of those things.

Fifteen minutes later, I place the finished stir-fry on the table with a flourish that’s only slightly undermined by the tea towel I had to use as an oven mitt.

‘Dinner is served,’ I announce. ‘Vegetable stir-fry with tofu and brown rice. Completely meat-free and, I promise, completely delicious.’

Kit and Maisie exchange a look that can only be described as mutual courage-gathering.

‘It smells really good,’ Maisie offers, climbing into her chair.

‘It does,’ Kit agrees, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘Really good.’

I slide into the chair across from him, trying not to look too anxious as they take their first bites.

My stomach knots with more than just nerves – it’s a quiet kind of desperation. Not just for them to like the food, but for this to work. For this tiny, ordinary moment to mean something more. I’ve spent years performing for cameras and critics, but this feels like the most important scene I’ve ever stepped into.

I don’t want to just pass through this time. I want to belong.

Maisie chews thoughtfully, head tilted. ‘It’s … not terrible.’