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“What is it?” I rolled up my shirt sleeves. “Chili?”
Frankie wrinkled her nose. “It started like that. Now it might be curry.”
Miri and Gabe would be here any minute. I’d told Frankie to let me deal with the food, but she’d insisted I take a break from the stress of cooking. She didn’t get that it was more stressful watching someone else do it wrong.
I washed my hands at the sink. “I’m taking over.”
I took the wooden spoon from her hand and tried the unappetizing concoction. Overwhelming heat made my eyes water. I tried to keep my face level. “It’s great. It just needs a little… salt.”
A blackened cake sat on the window ledge. Ribbons of gooey dough shone in the charred volcanic surface. It shouldn’t have been possible to both undercook and overcook something at the same time, but somehow she’d managed it. Too late to do anything about it now.
I smiled. “This looks great.”
“Thanks.” She brightened and took a seat at the table. “How was Laurel?”
“Who’s Laurel? Don’t tell me Dr. Forster is getting some?” The cool, crisp voice drifted from behind.
Gabe Rivers leaned against the doorframe. My sister’s billionaire husband had taken ownership of Calverdale Ladies last year. Since then, I couldn’t go a day without him leaning in a doorway—with a smirk and a sassy comment—somewhere in my vicinity. I’d long itched to get him in the therapy chair and find out what lay beneath that cocky grin. He appeared well adjusted for someone raised with every material whim catered. Underneath the dazzling smile and designer suits, he was actually quite normal—and by normal, I mean as fucked up as the rest of us.
Gabe and Miri had surprised everyone with their low-key wedding ceremony—a tiny, family only gathering—at the town registry office. Gabe had offered to buy us a new house, but Mum wouldn’t hear of it. She’d only just accepted the separate annex that we’d had built so she could have some privacy. With the rehab nurses and specialist physiotherapists, Mum was making incredible progress after her stroke.
Gabe grinned and squeezed my shoulder. “So? Spill the beans, Doc. Who’s the unlucky lady?”
Frankie pushed me away to the table; her gaze transferred to Gabe. “Laurel is Reece’s supervisor. She’s also about a hundred years old.”
Gabe raised a wry eyebrow. “An older woman? Nice.”
Miri chuckled and walloped him on the chest.
Frankie stirred the chili so violently she splattered the white tiled backsplash above the stove. “Shrinks need their own shrinks and then they have shrinks, like weird nesting dolls. They have group sessions where they all talk about emotions until it all gets too overwhelming.”
I rolled my eyes and snatched the spoon from Frankie before she made more mess and gave me a heart attack. “I’m a clinical psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
Frankie nudged me out of the way to stir the chili/curry. “Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
My jaw clenched. Frankie always left the kitchen in chaos. I opened the cutlery drawer to put the knives back in their correct place. Most unforgivably, she’d taken every single spice jar out of the rack after I’d sorted them alphabetically. I couldn’t wait to get everyone out of here so I could bring some order back.
Miri’s floral perfume filled my nose as she planted a light peck on my cheek. “Where’s Mum?”
“She’s having a nap. How are you?”
Miri grimaced and rubbed her pregnant belly. “My indigestion has indigestion. You?”
I flashed a meaningful glance at Frankie. “Irritated.”
Miri smothered a grin and lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s only trying to help.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
It was categorically not fine, but it was also my issue, not Frankie’s.
I couldn’t help but glance at Miri’s growing bump. “You’re blooming.”
She winced. “That’s what people say to make pregnant people feel better. My pregnancy sheen is sweat from all the vomiting.”
“Can you eat anything? Are you drinking? I read an article last week about the efficacy of ginger for hyperemesis during pregnancy. It was a randomized controlled trial. I’ll go and dig it out now—”
