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My mother never needed to cook. She had her own medical practice to focus on.

My father had one too.

But here I was. . .cooking for my new family.

My bare feet smoothed along the tile.

My sleeves were rolled up; my forearms were damp from rinsing broccoli.

Okay. This is next. At least that’s what the recipe says. . .

I moved between pots and pans like it was another kind of operating room, mise en place my sterile field, tongs my forceps.

I hope dinner doesn’t taste like shit.

The kitchen knife steadied in my hand the same way a scalpel did—except this time, I was cutting to keep them alive in comfort, not survival.

I think it’s time to get her a chef. I’ll tell her next week.

I wasn’t sure how she would take it. It seemed like Teyonah was not used to accepting gifts from someone who cared about her.

I looked over my shoulder.

Just off the hall, Teyonah’s office door stood ajar.

She’ll have to get used to it. I want to spoil her.

Instead of staying at the firm late, she’d brought home the last stack of filings for her supervisor’s big case and set herself a promise: finish tonight so she could do bedtime herself.

She hated that she missed the kids’ bedtimes last night.

Therefore, I wanted her to get her promise.

But I also knew that paperwork had a way of multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish. Even from here, I heard the crisp slide of pages and the mutter she made when a sentence didn’t behave.

That was why I decided to cook for her. Maybe that could help her get it done faster.

I just hope this doesn’t taste bad.

Several minutes later, I set the platter of chicken on the counter and checked the hallway again, half expecting her to appear in the doorway the way she did in my head all day: pencil in her hair, eyes sharp, tired, and unfairly beautiful.

The sway of her body was the kind of anatomy they never taught in med school—curves mapped for a surgeon who wanted to lose the steadiness in his hand.

Mmmm. We’re fucking tonight. I can’t hold back anymore.

I leaned my hips against the counter and swallowed. If I let myself go where that thought wanted me, dinner would burn.

Concentrate on dinner.

I pulled two sheet pans from the oven and turned the broccoli, making sure the edges were crisp and bright.

Next, I listened for kid-noises—J’s soft footfalls, Oliver tumbling somewhere.

The chicken needed five more minutes. I put it back in the oven.

The rice needed ten.

Alright. I’m getting the hang of this.