Page 90 of This Life of Mine

“I don’t mean that to be rude,” he adds easily. “You’re just the type of person who always has a next step lined up. If there’s nothing to manage, you invent something.”

I consider denying it and sigh. “Okay, wow. Still rude. And sadly accurate.”

He looks back, smiling. “It’s probably killing you to sit there and not be in charge.”

I shift on the stool. “It’s…uncomfortable.”

“That’s what I figured,” he says, smiling.

There’s no judgment in his voice. Only observation.

I lean my elbows on the counter, watching him. “From a really young age,” I say, “being still was never an option.”

He stills a fraction, listening.

“If I wasn’t doing something, I was in the way. Or lazy. Or wasting time. Rest wasn’t earned unless anything and everything else was done first.” I exhale. “And nothing was ever truly done.”

He turns and supports himself on the counter across from me. “So sitting equates to what? Failure?”

“More like exposure,” I admit. “Like if I stop moving, something bad might catch up, or I’m told I’m not doing enough.”

His gaze softens.

“That’s a lot to carry,” he says.

I shrug, a little too casually. “You get used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” he replies.

A quiet moment passes between us.

He reaches for the spatula again. “Today, your job is to sit. Let someone else handle things.”

“And if I fail spectacularly at that?” I ask.

“Nonetheless, I’ll kindly ask that you sit again,” he says, deadpan. “Possibly add threats involving burned chicken.”

I smile despite myself. “You’re very bossy for someone cooking in MY kitchen.”

“Temporary authority,” he says.

I watch him carefully.

“Okay,” I say again. Softer this time. “I’ll try.”

He glances back at me, something warm and approving in his eyes.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

He chops and cleans as he goes, wiping the counter between steps, stacking scraps neatly, rinsing knives instead of leaving them in the sink. It’s efficient without being rigid, careful without being obsessive. He doesn’t create chaos and promises to deal with it later. He handles itnow.

I already love that.

“What’s on the menu?” I ask, resting my chin in my palm.

He casts his gaze behind him. “Chicken Scarpariello,” he says with an accent.

“That sounds impressive.”