Chapter 4

Tom

I don’t remember when I made it to my bedroom last night, but my neck is paying for the hours I spent sleeping on the couch. I pour myself a cup of coffee and think about the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

“I can’t believe I thought moving her in and having her pretend to be my wife would fix this.” I take a big gulp and yelp, scorching hot liquid rushing down my throat, burning a layer of tissue along the way.

“Tom? Everything okay?” Krysten rushes into the kitchen, her bare feet hitting the tile floor in a fast staccato that helps take my mind off the pain.

“Fine,” I bite out, reaching for a glass of water.

“You don’t look fine. What happened?” She looks adorable, all concerned, her hair a mess. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt with a large bright-pink pig printed on it. I recognize it as the logo for a chain of local grocery stores. She turns, and I spit water all over myself at the sight of I dig the pig written in large pink letters across the back.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you? Are you having a stroke?” she asks, whipping back around and handing me a towel when she sees the mess I made.

“Hot coffee.” It’s a lame excuse, but it’s all I’ve got.

“Right.” Krysten looks at me like I’m losing my marbles and pours herself a cup. “That is pretty hot,” she says after a cautious sip.

“Hmm...” It’s better than the I-told-you-so that’s stuck in the back of my throat, the words burning right along with the coffee.

“Do you want me to make you some eggs?” she asks.

I raise an eyebrow, continuing my effort to stick to the advice my mother gave me many years ago. When you don’t have anything nice to say and all that. It’s served me well so far but has never proven to be as difficult to follow as it is right now.

“Fine. Toast? I can make toast.” She walks to the pantry and pulls out a loaf of bread, throwing four slices into the toaster.

While it heats and I recover, she grabs butter and jam from the fridge.

“Thank you.” I give the coffee another try, this time more cautiously. I can’t taste it, but it is no longer causing me bodily harm, and I need the caffeine.

“What’s the plan for this dinner tonight?” Krysten asks, spreading butter and jam on two slices before sliding the plate toward me.

“I’ve been thinking about it. There’s no way I can teach you to cook, and I have a meeting at the office this afternoon. Best course of action will be to order something and have you warm it back up and put it on platters. I’m sure I can find someone from a local restaurant that will put something together.” I go through a mental list of places to call.

“A friend of mine works at Rooted. I can give her a call. The chef does some catering on the side. As long as we keep it simple, I’m sure he won’t mind cooking for us tonight.” Krysten bites into her toast. A bit of strawberry jam gets stuck on her lip, and I have a hard time looking away.

“Rooted would be perfect. Do you mind picking it up?”

“Not one bit. I’ll call you when I get a hold of someone.”

The call comes in before lunch, and Krysten handles everything beautifully.

“That sounds perfect. I know this is a sensitive topic with women your age, but how would you feel about wearing an apron? You know, to sell the whole cooking thing.” I’m nervous about pulling this off and hope the right accessories will keep my old-fashioned boss and his wife from realizing this is all a big sham. One I’m not feeling particularly proud of. But I’ve worked too long and too hard for this promotion to risk coming clean now. In a couple of weeks, I’ll tell them. Or come up with some story about a separation. No matter what, I’m not letting Mindy take this away from me, too.

“Seriously? An apron?” I’m willing to bet money that Krysten is rolling her eyes.

“If you’d rather?—”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll play your pretty trophy wife and wear an apron. Anything specific you want me to buy? And don’t even think about one of those tacky ones with vegetable print fabric.” She tries to sound serious, but I can hear the amusement in her voice.

“I’ve got it covered.” I hit the buy button and have a nice linen apron ready for pickup during my lunch break.

It looks as adorable on her as I imagined it would.

“You’re seriously going to make me wear this?” Krysten asks, admiring herself in the hall mirror.

“Up to you, but I’d hate to see you ruin that blouse and skirt of yours. You look nice, by the way.” I lean in and brush a strand of hair out of her face.

“Thank you. I hope it’s not too much.” She twirls around, showing off her hair, makeup, and the two-inch heels that make her legs look like they’re a mile long.

“You look stunning. Thank you for doing this.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She adjusts the apron ties and walks back into the kitchen, where the dishes the chef from Rooted prepared for us are lined up on the counter.

By the time our guests arrive, all evidence of the switch and bait has been removed, and the duck is slowly reheating in the oven, making the entire place smell like Krysten’s slaved in the kitchen for the past six hours.

“You have a lovely home,” Lydia Martin, my boss’s wife says when they walk in the door at seven o’clock sharp.

“Thank you,” Krysten and I say in unison, and I realize the comment was directed at my make-believe wife.

“This is for you.” She holds a bottle of wine out to me while Bob Martin hands Krysten a bouquet of flowers. They are bright and cheerful, and for some reason, strike me as perfect for her.

Krysten’s eyes light up, and a strange sense of pride runs through me when I realize I was right. She likes them. “I’ll go put those into some water. Why don’t you take Mr. and Mrs. Martin to the dining room and get everyone a glass of wine?”

“Please, call me Lydia. Is there anything I can do to help?” Mrs. Martin asks.

Krysten shakes her head, and I motion for the couple to follow me through the living room and into the dining room, bypassing the kitchen and any possible remaining evidence of our little meal prep deception.

“And you can call me Bob.” He holds his hand out to her and shakes it a little longer than necessary, wrapping a second hand around hers. I glance at Lydia, but it doesn’t seem to bother her the way it does me.

“Wine?” I ask, in an effort to get everyone moving.

“Please.” Lydia moves through the living room with me, with Bob following close behind.

By the time Krysten returns with the flowers and sets them in the center of the dining room table, everyone has a glass of wine.

Handing Krysten hers, I propose a toast. “To a good meal with good friends.”

“Good plan, Tom. I’m starving.” Bob claps me on the shoulder, almost making me spill wine all over the beautifully set table.

“In that case, why don’t I get us started with the first course?” Krysten puts her wine down, and I follow her into the kitchen.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

“I’ll ladle, you carry.” She points to the tray where four small soup bowls are waiting. The chef from Rooted sent over a container of cream of asparagus soup and a small bag of croutons. Not something we’d ordered, but I was sure it would go well with the rest of the meal and it was a nice touch.

“This is delicious. You’ll have to give me the recipe,” Lydia says after her first taste of the dish.

“I’ll email it to you.” Krysten’s cheeks only turn the slightest hint of pink. It’s easily explained as embarrassment at the compliment.

“You’ve both done a nice job with this place. Tom, you said you did most of the restorations yourself?” Bob asks.

Relieved, I launch into a lengthy discussion of everything I’ve done since I bought the place. It’s a labor of love and something I can talk about for hours.

“Is everyone ready for the main course?” Krysten asks, and I realize I’ve lost the Martins’ interest.

“I’ll help you serve.” Lydia jumps up, and Bob pulls me into a conversation about real estate values in the area. I glance at Krysten. She gives me a confident smile before turning to Lydia to thank her for the help.

“I apologize for the duck. I overcooked it.” Krysten sets the bird in front of me and hands me the carving set that was a housewarming gift from my sister.

“I’m sure it will be fine, and these roasted potatoes and the asparagus look delicious.” Lydia sets two platters on the table before returning to her seat.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here.” I cut into the breast of the duck. It still smells great, but Krysten is right. The skin is charred, and the meat is dry, almost impossible with duck. It reminds me a little of the way my mom fixes her Thanksgiving turkey.

Thankfully, the Martins are good sports and praise the meal, regardless.

“I forgot the rolls.” Krysten jumps up and returns with a basket of steaming-hot bread a few minutes later. That’s when it clicks. The duck must have still been in the oven when she cranked up the heat to bake the rolls.

“I always love roasted asparagus. They serve it with sundried tomatoes like this at Rooted . Is that where you got the idea?” Lydia asks, and I hold my breath.

“Sure did. Roll anyone?” Krysten holds up the basket and a piece of paper drops on the table, right in front of Bob.

My heart stops when I realize what it is. The re-heating instructions from the chef, written down on a piece of stationary with the Rooted logo at the top.

“I...I—” I don’t know what to say. My mind has gone blank. Mortified that our little ruse is up, I can’t think of a way to talk myself out of this. Why did I think it was a good idea to deceive my boss like this? My conscience kicks into another gear, and I try to find the words to make this right. I look at Krysten, and to my surprise, she doesn’t look panicked at all.

“It’s my fault. I can’t cook to save my life, but I wanted to make a good first impression. Everything here is from Rooted. I’m so sorry. Please don’t blame Tom. His only fault was to marry a horrible cook.” Krysten reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it in silent support.

I mouth a silent thank you in her direction.

Lydia looks at her husband, then at Krysten, and smiles. “Don’t worry about a thing, honey. This is a brilliant idea. I should have thought of it years ago.”

“Yes, you should. This is delicious, and you did a wonderful job serving it up,” Bob said, his tone as encouraging as his wife’s.

“Except for the duck. And for the record, that’s on me. It didn’t arrive like this.” Krysten motions to the bird in front of me.

“I happen to like dry meat.” Bob pops a bit of the meat into his mouth. And chews. And chews. And chews, before reaching for his wine.

“Right.” Krysten laughs and pulls her hand away from mine. I miss the connection and busy myself refilling glasses.

The rest of the evening goes well. We play the perfect married couple, at ease with each other. Except for the rare occasions we touch. A hand on the shoulder, fingers brushing against each other as we clear the dishes, sitting close to each other on the couch. It’s exciting and slightly awkward and unexpected.

“It’s getting late,” Lydia says after coffee and apple pie.

“Right, I’m sure these two lovebirds are ready for some alone time.” Bob winks at Krysten, and this time her cheeks grow that glowing pink I’ve seen before.

I clear my throat, and Lydia shakes her head. She gets up, and I help her into her coat.

“Thank you both for a lovely evening. We’ll have to return the favor soon,” she says, giving both of us a warm smile and a brief hug.

“Come to my office Monday morning,” Bob says, shrugging into his jacket. “I have some papers for you to sign.”

“Does that mean you got the promotion?” Krysten asks quietly after I shut the door behind the Martins.

“I think it does.” A huge grin spread across my face. I didn’t think we’d pull this off, but somehow, we did. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Except for the part where I almost ruined it all with the duck and the instructions.” Krysten shakes her head and puts the cups and plates on a try to take them to the kitchen.

“And then you saved the day. I can’t thank you enough for what you did tonight. Leave this. I’ll take care of it.” I take the tray from her, and sparks fly again at the briefest touch of our fingers.

“No way. I’m too keyed up to head to bed. We’ll do it together. This part of kitchen work, I’m actually good at.”

We work as a team, loading the dishwasher and washing pots, pans, and finally the wine glasses.

The adrenaline of the evening finally wears off, and we’re both yawning as we make our way upstairs, turning off the various lights, including those on the Christmas tree.

“Thank you. I mean it,” I say when we stop in front of her door.

“You’re very welcome. And I mean that too.” Krysten doesn’t move, and neither do I. We’re rooted to the floor, lost in each other’s eyes.

Mine travel down to her rosy lips, my head lowering of its own volition. I catch myself at the last moment, realizing what I’m doing. I step back and take a deep breath. “Goodnight.”