Chapter 47 Lunch

Chapter 47 Lunch
Liana's POV
The familiar scent of home, a mix of freshly brewed coffee and whatever Liam had for lunch, was a welcome relief after the whirlwind day. Adrian, Liam, and I all headed to our respective rooms to freshen up. The incident with Vivian still prickled at the edges of my thoughts, and the unexpected sight of Clara’s daughter had left me feeling raw, an old wound reopened. I needed a distraction, something simple and consuming.

Once I was changed into my comfortable house clothes, I found myself drawn to the kitchen. My phone, still clutched in my hand, showed an enticing Italian recipe I’d stumbled upon earlier. "I was thinking of trying this new pasta recipe," I called out, hoping to sound more enthusiastic than I felt. “Saw it on my For You page. Looks really good.”

Adrian emerged from his room, adjusting the sleeves of a casual polo shirt. "Sounds delicious. Need a hand?" he offered, a smile playing on his lips.

I snorted, a genuine laugh bubbling up despite myself. "You? The man who almost amputated his own fingers trying to dice an onion back in London? I wouldn't trust you with a butter knife.” The image of him, pale and wide-eyed, clutching his bleeding finger, still made me chuckle.

He feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. "For your information, Liana, I've taken special classes since then. From Gordon Ramsay himself, no less. Prepare to be blown away by my extraordinary diced onions." His pride, even over something as mundane as chopping vegetables, was endearing.

"Well, just make sure you don't burn the house down with your 'extraordinary' skills," I warned, already moving towards the pantry to pull out ingredients. "Or flood it with tears from those onions. You cried more than Liam did after his first vaccination."

We entered the kitchen, a comfortable silence settling between us as I laid out the necessary items. Liam, worn out from his day at school and the excitement of Nora, was already napping peacefully in his room. It was just us, and for a moment, the world outside faded.

"Alright, Michelin-star chef," I began, pointing to a cutting board. "Start with these tomatoes. Nice, small dice. And try to keep all ten fingers attached this time."

He grinned, picking up a knife with an air of theatrical confidence. “You wound me. My dicing has improved dramatically.” He actually wasn't terrible with the tomatoes, which surprised me. I gave him a few more tasks, directing him as he followed my instructions with a surprising degree of precision. He actually seemed to be enjoying it, humming a low tune as he worked. It was going… well. Too well, perhaps.

"Okay, Adrian," I said, handing him a bottle of olive oil. "Just a drizzle into the pan. We don't want to drown the pasta in oil.” I turned my back for a second to grab the beef, and when I turned back, I nearly dropped it. Half the bottle of olive oil was now sloshing in the pan, a shimmering, golden lake. He’d forgotten to secure the cap.

My jaw dropped. “Adrian! A drizzle! Not a flood!”

He looked mortified. "Oh, blast it! I thought the cap was on tight!"

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Right. Stand aside, ‘Gordon Ramsay.’ Let me salvage this.” I grabbed a large spoon and began carefully scooping out the excess oil, trying not to splash any onto the pristine countertop. This was going to take a while.

Once I’d removed enough oil to avoid a grease fire, I handed him the diced beef. “Okay, your turn again. Fry this up. Get it nice and golden brown.” My voice was laced with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. What was it about Adrian and kitchens?

He poured the beef into the pan, and within seconds, the oil started popping and spitting. Adrian, with a yelp, grabbed the lid and held it like a shield, his eyes wide and comically exaggerated. He stood there, shoulders hunched, peering cautiously through the small gap as the meat sizzled and crackled. He looked like a warrior trying to tame an enraged, oil-spitting dragon.

I tried. I really did. I bit the inside of my cheek, focused on chopping garlic, but a giggle escaped, then another, louder one. Soon, I was openly laughing, leaning against the counter, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. He shot me a glare, but even he couldn't hold back a small, sheepish smile.

"I think you've fried it enough, chef," I managed, still breathless from laughter. "Here, let me take over before you declare war on our cookware." I nudged him gently away from the stove. “Why don’t you take a break? You’ll turn this kitchen into a warzone.”

He shook his head, regaining some of his previous determination. "No, no, I'm committed. I’m in this to the end. What's next?"

"Fine, you stubborn goat." I pointed to the new blender I’d bought, still in its box. “We need juice. Let’s make some fresh orange juice. You can handle a blender, right?”

He unwrapped the blender, carefully assembled it, and then stood there, staring at the buttons as if it were a complex alien device. He pressed one, then another, a look of utter confusion on his face. He pressed the ‘smoothie’ button for about ten seconds before I snatched a half-blended orange from the counter.

I pinched the space between my forehead, a familiar gesture when I felt utterly bewildered. “Adrian, have you ever done any cooking in any of the homes you’ve owned?” I asked, half-joking, half-serious. It was genuinely baffling. He was brilliant in almost every other aspect of life.

He finally got the blender to work, a triumphant smirk on his face as the oranges whirled. “Well, most of my life, I had long work shifts at the hospital,” he admitted, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. “So, dinner was usually eating out with colleagues. Or, you know, being cooked for by... others.” He left the implied ‘staff’ hanging in the air. “But I assure you, I am willing to pass through the fiery act of frying chicken or beef if it means giving you a helping hand.” He puffed his chest out slightly, looking utterly ridiculous with his hand still on the now-whirring blender.

"Right," I said, shaking my head. "Well, your 'helping hand' has almost set fire to my kitchen and drowned my pasta in olive oil. But I appreciate the sentiment." I took the now-smooth orange juice from him. "Let's stick to simple tasks for you, alright? Maybe peeling vegetables next time."

He winked. "As long as it's with you, Liana, I'm game for anything. Even burnt offerings."

I rolled my eyes, a genuine smile replacing the earlier tension. “Just try not to summon a demon with the smoke, okay?”

We continued to cook, a comfortable rhythm settling between us, punctuated by my instructions, his occasional blunders, and our shared laughter. The anxieties of the day, the ghosts of past and present, seemed to recede, replaced by the simple, grounding act of making dinner with a friend. For now, this was enough.