Her throat tightened in a way she didn't permit often. She deflected the only way she knew how.
"You're useful in the kitchen. I'll keep you around."
He smirked, turning off the stove. "Good to know where I stand."
He plated the pasta, added basil, shaved parmesan over the top, and slid a dish toward her.
Amara eyed it like it might detonate. Then she took a bite.
Her eyes flickered.
Travis watched, waiting.
"…God," she whispered, shocked. "You can cook."
He placed a hand on his chest, feigning relief. "You have no idea how much was riding on that bite."
She took another, slower this time.
"This is unfair," she muttered. "You can't be rich, frustrating, and capable of making edible food. Pick a struggle."
"I already did," he said softly, "and I married her."
Amara froze.
Just a breath. Just that.
Then she set her fork down and looked at him with a steadiness that wasn't cold. Her eyes softened.
"Don't say things like that," she whispered.
"Why not?"
