Chapter 3

Krysten

“ Y ou’re doing what?” Lilly asks when I head back the next day to help her clean out our place before we turn the key over to the landlord.

“I’m staying at his place, pretending to be his wife at some dinner party he’s hosting for his boss. He’s a busy guy. He needs a little help pulling it off, and it’s not like I have anything else to do now that I’m unemployed.” I sweep a huge pile of dust, hair, and crumbs into the pan. I have no idea where it’s coming from. Lilly and I are both neat people, and we’ve been sweeping this kitchen diligently every night we lived here. Or at least most nights.

“He knows you can’t cook, right?” Lilly points to the old electric stove that’s born witness to my failed attempts to prepare a meal that involved more than a plate and a knife.

“I agreed to host a dinner party and decorate his house.” I dump the dirt into the trash bag sitting in the center of the kitchen and turn to walk to the hallway.

“Please tell me you told Tom that you can’t cook.” Lilly stops me from leaving the kitchen.

“Okay.” I shrug, doing my best to brush off the one part of this arrangement that’s been eating a hole into my stomach.

“OMG! He has no idea, does he?” Lilly puts down the rag she’s been using to wipe out cabinets and turns to me, hands on her hips.

“Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

“How? You can’t cook to save your life. You’ve scorched a pot of boiling water to make tea.” Lilly raises an eyebrow, continuing to stare at me.

“I said I’ll figure it out. I still have a couple of days. He’s saving my bacon by letting me stay with him. The least I can do is make a meal and put up a few decorations.” I walk past her and get back to sweeping.

“I wish I could stay and help you.”

“By doing what? Hiding in the kitchen to do the cooking?” I appreciate the gesture, but there’s no helping me out of this. I need to woman up and figure out how to cook a passable dinner for Tom’s boss and his wife. How hard can it be? People figure out how to do this every single day.

“I guess that won’t work, will it?” Lilly asks, a sad smile on her face.

“It won’t. You have things to do, places to go. And I have a house to decorate. Let’s finish this and get the keys turned in.” I give the woman I’ve shared a tiny apartment with a hug, and we do just that.

Two hours later, I walk back into Tom’s place, carrying two large bags of Christmas decorations. A bunch of throw pillows, blankets, the missing tree topper, and a stunning wreath for the front door are waiting in my trunk. If there’s one thing I am good at when it comes to housewifely duties, it’s making this place look like a million bucks. And it won’t even cost Tom nearly that much. Sure, his credit card is getting a bit of a workout today, but that’s what he gave it to me for. I make another cup of coffee and grab another cookie. That’s right. Domestic goddess that I am, I made a batch of walnut and cranberry cookies. Okay, they are the break and bake kind, but only a few of them got burned when I lost track of time. Most of them are perfectly edible and pretty delicious.

I crank up my upbeat holiday music playlist and get to work.

All goes according to plan until my phone rings.

“Hey, Tom, everything going okay? I didn’t spend too much?” I ask, assuming he’s gotten an alert or a call from the bank or something.

“What? No. I’m sure it’s fine. I want to ask you a favor.” He sounds distracted. And tired.

“Ask away.” I set down the pine garland I plan on wrapping around the rail of the stairs.

“I’m not going to make it back home until late and didn’t get a chance to grab lunch. Would you mind fixing us something? I don’t care what. I should be home around seven-thirty.”

I glance at the clock on the mantel. That gives me a little over three hours to figure out how to cook. “Sure thing, boss. Any requests?”

“I don’t care. Nothing fancy. Just some hot meal so I can eat and crash on the couch.” Tom ends the call before I can ask what kind of food he likes.

Part of me is tempted to order pizza, but he’ll see right through that. The man asked me to cook for him, and he’s helping me out of the pickle I’ve gotten myself in. The least I can do is make an effort and cook him something. How complicated can it be?h

It’s worse than I thought. An hour of watching cooking videos didn’t help much. Spaghetti with meat sauce sounds easy enough until I try to follow the directions and everything goes wrong. I’m improving though. I managed to boil the pasta water without scorching the pot and the cookies turned out well. The noodles are happily floating in the hot water, but the ground beef is a different story. It keeps sticking and is turning into a crunchy, dark-brown mess that keeps sticking to the bottom of the pan.

“Krysten?” Tom walks in the door the moment the smoke detector goes off. For the second time.

I wave a kitchen towel in front of it. “In here. I’m fine. Dinner is almost ready.”

Tom walks in and takes a look at the mess I’ve made on the stove. “I don’t think so.” He reaches across my shoulder and turns off both burners.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” I stand in front of the mess I made. I feel tears pooling in my eyes and wipe at them angrily. Darn smoke.

“You can’t cook, can you?” Tom asks, his voice sounding defeated. He opens the kitchen window. Cold air streams in and clears the worst of the smoke.

“I’m not great. I made cookies, though.” I turn to face him, trying to brace myself for his anger.

He’s quiet. He doesn’t even look angry. Mostly tired and contemplative.

“Please don’t throw me out. I can do this. I promise. I just need a little practice. Let me try again.” I grab the pan and scrape the burned bits of beef into the trash can.

Tom stirs the noodles and shakes his head. “I’ll cook. You do dishes.”

He rolls up his sleeves and opens the pantry. Luckily, I bought two packs of pasta, but there’s no beef left. He rummages around and pulls out a head of garlic and a bottle of olive oil.

I do as asked, handing him the clean pot and pan by the time he’s done chopping garlic. The scent is pungent, and I wonder about that much garlic in a single dish. But what do I know? Not much, apparently.

I sit back and watch the man work. I don’t know how well he cooks, but he sure plays the part, wearing a charcoal gray half apron over his suit pants. His tie is gone, and he’s got a bit of a five-o’clock shadow.

I swallow hard, enjoying this scruffy and more relaxed version of Tom a little too much.

In less time than it took me to get the water boiling the first time around, he whips up some garlic and olive oil pasta dish with parsley. He serves it up on simple white plates with freshly grated parmesan cheese.

“This smells amazing.” I look at the dish in front of me. I’d happily order this at my favorite Italian restaurant. And he cooked it right in front of me in less than half an hour. Impressive.

“Taste it. You may not like it.” Some of his spark is back. He doesn’t look nearly as tired as he had when he first walked in the door.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” I ask.

He looks at me, eyes wide.

“You like to cook,” I add.

“I do. At least I do most nights. I don’t get around to cooking anything more complicated than this most of the time.” He rolls some of the spaghetti in their rich, creamy sauce around his fork, and I do the same.

“Why would you? This is to die for.” I’m not joking. It’s without doubt the best pasta dish I’ve ever had.

“It’s all in the ingredients. You can’t mess it up if you use fresh garlic and good olive oil.”

“Trust me, I could.” I dig in again, savoring every bite.

“Maybe you’re right.” He doesn’t look angry. A little disappointed maybe, but so far, he hasn’t kicked me out.

“And that’s a problem. With the dinner party?—”

He holds up a hand and stops me. “Let’s not worry about it. I am too worn out to even think about that darn dinner. Let’s just eat and relax for the night.”

That’s exactly what we do. I insist on cleaning up the kitchen, sending him into the living room to find us something to watch.

By the time I return with a small plate of cookies for dessert, he’s stretched out on the couch, a movie playing in the background.

“I love Elf,” I blurt out when I recognize it.

“Me too.” He takes a cookie, looking surprised that it’s edible, when he cautiously bites into it. Can’t say that I blame him, but lucky for me, the cookies are fine and the movie is as good as I remember. I put down the plate, grab a cookie for myself, and curl up in the oversized chair, pulling the throw I bought earlier in the day across my legs.

We laugh at Will Ferrell’s antics and sing along with him.

“The place looks great. Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier,” Tom says, doing his best to suppress a yawn.

“You were a little distracted by the threat of a fire in the kitchen.” I smile, trying to put on a good face, but it still bothers me that I failed yet again at cooking a meal. It really shouldn’t be that complicated. Even Buddy knew how to make spaghetti, though his choice of toppings is questionable.

“We’ll figure something out.” Tom’s eyes return to the TV screen, and we both lose ourselves in the last bit of the movie.

I glance over at him when the end credits roll, surprised he hasn’t said anything. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even. Tom’s fallen asleep. I get up, trying hard not to make a sound, and carefully drape the throw across him.

He rolls on his side but doesn’t wake up. I tuck the blanket around his shoulders, noticing how much softer his features are in sleep. The worry lines across his forehead have melted away, and the strong jawline I like so much has softened a bit as well.

I tiptoe upstairs and get ready for bed. When I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it hits me. I’m falling hard for this man who’s come to my rescue and is counting on me to pull off the impossible.