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Foster spoons a bit and blows on it while holding his other hand underneath so the sauce won’t drip on the floor. When he holds it out, I put my lips over the spoon and take a bit off, letting the tanginess roll over my tongue.
“It’s good,” I compliment.
“Thank you.”
“It’s not from a jar?”
Foster washes the spoon, answering, “Nope. I like to make puree during the summer. They have a few farmer’s markets around here to get fresh vegetables at.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe that you do that on your own.”
He smirks. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re always busy with work.”
“But not too busy to enjoy the simple things in life.”
I take a seat at the breakfast bar to watch Foster stir the sauce. After a second, he stops to open the oven. Inside is a crusty loaf of bread.
“I hope you like garlic bread,” he says with a glance over at me.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I did. We haven’t been getting along, and we have a long road ahead of us.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I mutter.
“Why don’t you set the table, the pasta is almost ready.”
I dutifully get plates from the cabinet and silverware from the drawer, then sett two places at the breakfast bar.
Foster turns as I fold the napkins. “What are you doing?”
“Setting the table,” I respond as a matter-of-factly.
“I meant the dining table.”
“So, we’re going fancy now?”
He sighs, pleading, “Humor me.”
I move everything to the dining table, and when I return to the kitchen, Foster is slicing the bread and placing it on a napkin in a basket. Silently, I take it to the table.
“Do you want wine?” he calls.
“Yes, please.”
After everything is set, Foster waits for me to sit before he does. Handling my plate, he uses tongs to place a spiral of spaghetti coated in tangy sauce on it. I wait for him to serve himself before I spin the strands on my fork and take a bite. Foster pauses as I do.
“Mmm, this is good.”
“I’m glad you like it. Try the bread.” He places a slice on my plate, and I bite into the garlicky goodness. It amazes me that Foster can cook since domesticity doesn’t seem like his forte.
“Delicious. I just might have to contest the divorce.”
“Not funny, Paige. Don’t ruin this.”
“I’m sorry.”
