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Chapter 713:
“Last time you cooked for me,” he said, “you tried to poison me with salt p>
“I did not—” she started, then laughed, surprising herself. “It was edible p>
“It was seawater.” He reached past her, picked up the USB drive, examined it with apparent fascination before slipping it into his pocket. “But I ate every bite. Because you made it p>
June’s throat tightened. She looked at him—at this man who had spent hours watching her work, who had sent messages and made calls and built a fortress around her while she read spreadsheets—and felt something shift in her chest.
“Mac and cheese,” she said. “I can make mac and cheese. It’s practically impossible to ruin p>
𝗙o𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝘀 𝘰n
“Famous last words p>
“Get out of my kitchen p>
He raised his hands in surrender, but he was smiling, and he followed her.
The kitchen was spacious, open, designed for someone who entertained more than they cooked. June found the pantry, the refrigerator, pulled out a box of pasta, a block of aged cheddar, a carton of cream.
Easton stood at the sink, rolling his sleeves higher, washing his hands with the thoroughness of a surgeon.
“You don’t have to p>
“I want to.” He dried his hands on a towel and hung it precisely on its hook. “Tell me what to do p>
She put him on grating duty. The cheddar, the parmesan, a small mound of nutmeg. He worked with the same precision he brought to everything—the grater moving in steady, rhythmic strokes, the cheese falling in perfect ribbons.
June boiled water. Added salt—carefully, consciously, barely a pinch. Melted butter, whisked in flour, built a roux that smelled of nut and possibility.
They worked in silence. Not the tense silence of the club, not the charged silence of the study, but something else. Something domestic. Something that made June’s chest ache with a longing she refused to name.
“Tell me about the roux,” Easton said.
“Equal parts fat and flour. Cook until it smells like toast. That’s how you know it’s ready p>
“And then p>
“Milk. Slowly. Whisk constantly. Or you get lumps p>
“Like life p>
June looked at him. He was still grating, his eyes on his work, his mouth curved in that almost-smile.
“Yes,” she said. “Like life p>
The sauce came together, silky and golden. June added the cheese in handfuls, watched it melt, become something greater than its parts. The pasta cooked, al dente, drained, returned to the pot.
Easton handed her the grated cheese. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them pulled away.
She folded it in. The sauce coated every curve, every hollow, clinging with the tenacity of something that knew it belonged.
“Plates p>
“Above the coffee maker p>
He found them. White porcelain, simple, expensive. Set two on the island, found forks, napkins, the choreography of shared space.
June served. Two mounds of golden pasta, steam rising, the smell of comfort, of childhood, of something she had thought she had lost.
Easton took his first bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“Well p>
He set his fork down. Reached across the island, took her hand, laced their fingers together.