That earned me a small laugh, but it sounded hollow. “I'm not avoiding you.”
“But something happened.”
She sighed, finally looking at me. “Can we talk about it after dinner? I promise I will. I just...” She gestured vaguely. “I want to enjoy this first. You cooked for me. That's not something I want to rush through.”
The careful way she chose her words made my chest tight. Whatever this was, it wasn't small.
“Bad news?”
“I don't know yet.” She threaded her fingers through mine. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Everything in me wanted to push. Find out what was making her look at me like she was memorizing my face. But I'd spent years being pushed myself—parents demanding answers, explanations, justifications for every decision that didn't meet their standards.
“Okay.” I squeezed her hand. “After dinner.”
Relief flickered across her features. She leaned over and kissed me, soft and lingering, like she was trying to say something she couldn't put into words yet.
“Come on.” I stood, offering her my hand. “Let's eat before it gets cold.”
She let me pull her up, her grip lingered longer than necessary.
In the kitchen, I plated the chicken and vegetables while Rosie refilled our wine glasses. We settled at the small table, Pudding sprawled beneath it, occasionally nudging our legs with his nose.
Rosie cut into her chicken, took a bite, and her eyebrows shot up. “Okay, this is really good.”
“You say that like you expected it to be terrible.”
“No, but—” She gestured with her fork. “Last time you mentioned cooking, it was microwaving leftover pizza for breakfast.”
I speared a piece of roasted carrot. “I can follow a recipe when I put effort into it.”
“Whenyou put effort into it?”
“Last week I tried to make pizza from scratch. Burned it so badly the smoke alarm went off for ten minutes straight. Pudding disappeared under the bed and wouldn't come out until I opened a bag of treats.”
She burst out laughing. “Poor baby. First abandonment trauma, now cooking trauma.”
“He's resilient.”
“Clearly.” She took another bite. “This is seriously good though. I'm impressed.”
Pudding whined under the table. A second later, Rosie casually moved her hand toward her lap.
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“You just gave him chicken.”
She tried to look innocent. “He gave me puppy eyes.”
“He always gives you puppy eyes.”
“Because he loves me.” She scratched his head under the table.
“Can't blame him.”
Her gaze snapped to mine, cheeks flushing pink. I smiled at her, warmth spreading through my chest at the sight of that blush. But then she looked away, focusing intently on cutting another piece of chicken, avoiding my eyes completely.