When I rested a hand on his warm back, and a snore elicited from his mouth, my lips eased into a smile. Tristan shifted, then stirred. He blinked open his brilliant blue eyes and found me.
“Lorna.” He licked his lips, thirsty, unsure. He sat up.
My hand flopped to my side. “Are you okay?”
“Is something burning?”
“What?” Then I smelled it. “The spaghetti!” I darted from the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. An over-boiling pot greeted me. I turned off the burner.
I groaned when I heard Tristan’s soft chuckle. “Was that dinner?” he asked.
“It was supposed to be. Maybe it still is.” I put on oven mitts and drained the water. “I think we can eat these. They’re not too ruined.”
Tristan peeked over my shoulder. “Just add the sauce. It’ll cover any burnt flavor.”
I pursed my lips, half-amused, half-annoyed, and retrieved the spaghetti sauce. After mixing it well, I grabbed a couple of dishes and heaped them with my attempt at dinner. When I set the plates on the table, Tristan already had the salad there, along with the utensils and cups of water.
We sat. I murmured a prayer and listened as Tristan gave his usual grunt of “Amen.”
The clang of forks on the edge of the plates and the setting of the cups on the table filled the silence that followed for the next few minutes. I was still picking away at my plate when Tristan finished and shoved his aside.
“As usual, delicious.”
My cheeks warmed pleasantly. “I know it’s your favorite.”
“It’s too bad meat is so expensive. That would be the perfect complement to the rest of the dish. One day, I imagine large meatballs covered with your famous sauce.”
I quirked my lips. “Famous sauce? My sauce is hardly that good.”
He chuckled. “Let me be the judge of that.”
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