Chapter. 22

There wasn’t enough time between getting home and Damon coming to the door with the groceries to clean up the casual disarray: ignored mail, crumbs, laundry. All things considered, though, at least my place was pretty clean!

Damon sauntered in, placed the bags on the kitchen island, and immediately shucked off his suit jacket. “Nice. This is exactly the kind of building I’d expect your dad to put you in.”

“Don’t say it like that.” I snatched his jacket and hung it on the back of a cream linen-coated dining chair. “This was close to campus and the office. I pay for all the amenities, he just helped with the down payment.”

“Only the down payment…”

“Hey, you’d help your family, given the chance!” Eyeing him, I got out the cutting board and knife and started chopping produce for my fairly straightforward chicken, starch, and veggies with sauce recipe.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re supposed to make them uniform so they cook evenly.”

“Fine, you do the chicken then, Mr. Chef.” I handed the chopping stuff to him and got the sauce started with my beautiful, imperfect produce.

Damon unbuttoned his shirt, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and got to work with quick, efficient strokes. That level of control must’ve taken years to perfect.

“Why didn’t you stay at your family restaurant?” I asked.

“It’s a tough business.” He shrugged. “I didn’t love it. It’s been better for me to go into business and help out where they need it.”

“The finances?”

He nodded.

My phone chirped, so I set the sauce on a low heat and checked my messages.

“Who is it?” Damon asked.

“Dad… checking to see if I’m ‘feeling better.’”

Damon snorted. “Are you?”

“Kind of. But not about that.” I slumped against the counter, typing and then deleting a reply. “I guess I’ll have to go in and collect the rest of my office so he finally gets that this isn’t a leave of absence.”

“Should I go with you as backup?” he asked, a little line between his brows. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was concerned.

“No, you shouldn’t have to deal with them any more than necessary until the merger. I’d hate for the regular office to associate you with a rejected pitch and ‘stealing me away.’”

“You came to me!” he protested, the meat hissing as he turned it over in the pan.

“In their eyes, I’m Martin Enterprise’s precious princess, easily swayed by bad, charming men who prey on rich heiresses.” I wiped my hands of the idea — and any more food prep. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of my palace.”

Damon chuckled, his tough demeanor melting away as he padded after me on our brief tour.

“Bathroom, home office, bedroom,” I said, opening the doors as I named each room.

He pushed past me on the last one.

“Is that my t-shirt?” He reached for my favorite sleep shirt discarded on the bed.

I tried to jump on the mattress to block him. “Those are my pajamas!”

He got it out from under me and held it up with the conviction of a prosecutor. “Don’t tell me your photographic memory doesn’t remember I wore this all through sophomore and junior year, until—”

I pushed his hip with my foot. “You let me wear your stuff!”

“Yes, but you kept it. All items should be returned in the event of a breakup.”

I wrestled with Damon until I managed to snatch the t-shirt and stuff it under a pillow. Now I was half-trapped under him, breathless, my heart beating fast. “Yeah, well, maybe in the divorce.”

Damon’s laughter rang through the room—just as smoke crept through the doorway.

“Oh my god! Something’s burning!” I shoved him off me and sprinted to the kitchen, shifting the pan off the heat. “Ah, does stirring dissipate that charred taste?”

Damon calmly walked over, briefly touched my waist, and leaned over my shoulder. “May I have a taste?”

“You may, Mr. Mae.” I brought the wooden spoon to his mouth, unwilling to hand over the utensil itself.

He rolled his eyes, sipped, then licked his lips. “Not bad. I’d add a pinch of garlic powder.”

“Garlic? Good thing we’re not kissing.” I knocked him with my hip. “Now, how is that chicken coming?”

Coughing, he turned away. “Ten more minutes?”

“I hope you’re not still sick…”

“No, that’s just the smoke.” He smirked, the brat.

When he wasn’t looking, I tasted the sauce—oof, bitter and burned—then added the garlic powder and tasted again. He was right! It gave the sauce a much-needed kick.

“Spiral the sauce around the bowl,” he directed, demonstrating with his tongs. “It’s great for presentation and distribution.”

“I’ll remember that next time I’m packing my lunch.”

He laughed, fanning the chicken out across each of our bowls. “I do my cooking in bulk on Sundays. Freeze it in portions, then microwave it at work.”

I smiled and soaked the pans. “I think I was spoiled at my dad’s—”

“You think?” Damon arched a brow.

I flicked water at him, making him flinch and grin. Wiping my hands off on my apron, I grabbed silverware. “Cora always kept snacks at her desk. Maybe I should start my own stash.”

“We should’ve worked meal plans into our contract,” Damon noted, carrying the plates to my dining room table.

“We still can! Compromise, hard work, and support are the key to a successful relationship.”

“Here I thought it was ‘communication.’”

Interesting. Right before our breakup, he’d clammed up, and I’d given up trying to pretend everything would be okay if we planned ahead. Our colleges were far apart. If we weren’t talking, what was the point?

“No wonder we didn’t last,” I muttered.

“What was that?” he asked, turning around.

“Nothing!” There was no use squabbling about our real relationship, especially since it was over and done. “Maybe once we’re out as a couple, we can do some meal and snack trading. What would you like to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

Once that was settled, I sat across from him at the dinner table and raised my goblet. “To second chances!”

Damon nodded. “To second chances.”