Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“Are you planning to make enough to share?”

Honestly, I was planning to make a shit ton. I love to cook when I’ve had a few drinks, and I have this empty, shiny new kitchen that’s still crazy clean and hasn’t even really been broken in yet.

But I shouldn’t be making Murphy ravioli, late in the evening, while she wears that and while my inhibitions are lower.

It reeks of all the trouble I told myself I wanted to avoid.

“No. I’m not.”

Curt, not unkind, I remind myself.

Murphy’s posture changes as she pulls back from the island so she’s standing now. I can see her disappointment clearly on her face and in her body language, and I feel a lance of regret.

“I guess I could,” I say, changing my tune with enough quickness to give me whiplash, clearly having another moment of weakness. “If you want some, I mean.”

Murphy’s lips twist, and I can tell she’s not sure what to make of my response.

“It’ll only add on a few extra minutes,” I continue, suddenly wanting her to come with me to the kitchen so I can cook her a meal.

A favorite meal, at that.

She inclines her head in the direction of the hallway behind her. “I’m just gonna grab a sweater,” she finally says, all signs of her earlier disappointment gone. “I’ll meet you over there?”

I give her a small smile, a mixture of emotions brewing inside me. “Sounds good.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m kneading dough on the stainless steel worktable while Murphy sits on the counter next to the sink, watching.

“How long have you been a chef?”

I glance over at her, my gaze traveling over her bare legs dangling off the edge.

“My whole life.”

She lets out a small huff of laughter.

“You came from the womb sharpening your knives and kneading dough?”

I lift the dough in my hand and smack it down on the table, then begin pulling and stretching.

“Practically.”

She gives me a big smile, which I return, feeling no regret for inviting her over. I’m enjoying her company too much. It feels comfortable and easy, and I’m already regretting that she’ll have to leave after I feed us.

“I cooked a lot growing up,” I explain. “My mom was always … She wasn’t home really to make sure we had dinner and stuff, so I cooked for my brother and me a lot. When I was old enough, I got a job at a restaurant and just kind of worked my way up.” I shrug. “It feels like my whole life.”

“No college or anything?”

I glance over in her direction. “No, college wasn’t for me.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

My shoulders ease, and I suddenly realize I was worried about if she’d judge me for that. Over the years, plenty of people have made the assumption that I’d never make anything of myself because I didn’t go to college or get a degree. But not everybody is book smart. Not everybody wants what college offers.

Having Murphy get that alleviates the need to explain myself, and for that, I’m grateful.

“No college for you, huh?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. I knew if I went, I’d be committing myself to some kind of normal-person job. A teacher. Someone who works in HR. And that’s not what I wanted.”