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“Need help with that?” Grady’s amused voice caught me off guard as he leaned against the kitchen’s doorway.
“I don’t cook,” I admitted, a bit embarrassed.
“No shit.” He chuckled, making his way to the sink to wash his hands. “Move aside.”
“You cook?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course. Nobody else ever did it for me.”
I averted my eyes, not wanting him to catch the flicker of sympathy that I feared might show. But it was too late.
“I don’t need your pity,” he said.
“No pity here. Tell me what to do, chef.” I tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters, though I couldn’t help being curious about his past.
I only knew that he’d been raised in foster care and had no family to speak off. He didn’t talk about it much.
Grady’s mood lightened as he directed me. “Grab a knife and start chopping vegetables.”
Following his instructions, I laid out the knife, vegetables, and cutting board. However, I hesitated, unsure of how to proceed.
Grady, noticing my uncertainty, chuckled. “Like this.” He demonstrated how to dice the vegetables.
“This is what I need. Housewife 101,” I joked.
“Housewife? You?” Grady looked at me, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“Maybe? I don’t know. It sounds kind of awful, doesn’t it?” I said, the concept foreign to me.
“Not really. There’s nothing wrong with a woman taking care of her home and family,” he reasoned, his voice carrying a hint of respect.
“No, of course not. That’s my mom—the perfect rancher’s wife, the perfect mom. I respect the hell out of her,” I confessed.
“It’s just not you,” Grady observed.
“No. At least, not yet. Maybe one day.” My gaze drifted back to the window, to Wyatt engrossed in his work. “Do you think he wants to stay here?”
Grady followed my gaze and frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. Even if he gets ownership, it won’t be easy to get the farm up and running again.”
“No, it won’t be,” I agreed.
“But it’s Wyatt.”
“Right. The most stubborn man alive.” A smile tugged at my lips.
“Exactly.”
“Exactly,” I repeated and returned to my chopping.
Dinner was delicious—thanks to Grady because I was about as helpful as a burr under a saddle pad. We had just started on dessert, diving into some oversized cinnamon buns we’d picked up from a local bakery, when the sudden ring of Wyatt’s phone sliced through the chewing sounds.
By the fourth ring, I reached out, lightly touching his arm. “Do you want me to answer it?”
Wyatt seemed to ground himself with a deep breath before shaking his head. “No, I got it.” He stood, distancing himself from the table to take the call in private.
The urge to follow him was strong, mirrored by Finn’s tense expression, but we held back, understanding Wyatt’s need for space in this moment.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the sounds of Grady gathering dishes. Finn and I helped with the cleanup, our actions automatic, but my thoughts lingered on Wyatt.
