Page 51 of A Simple Regret

She carefully measures out the warm water and pours the water into a bowl before glancing at me and replying, “Your mom.”

I should have known.

If Maren wasn’t out in the garage with me, she was in the house with my mom. She’d often help prepare dinner, always wanting to contribute, even if it was just setting the table. I know she learned a lot from my mom, and this is just proof. Especially since she’s not using a recipe card. She’s recalling it by memory, and if what she said was true and she hasn’t made it anytime recently, that’s saying something.

“She was the master in the kitchen,” I say, watching her work.

“She was. I learned a lot from her.” I don’t miss the blush on her cheeks she tries to hide by lowering her chin into her chest. She dumps a tablespoon of yeast into the warm water, as well as a tablespoon of sugar and slides the bowl toward me. “Will you help him stir this?”

“Absolutely,” I reply, taking the whisk and turning my attention to Theo. “Ready to stir this up, little dude?”

“Yep!”

While we attack that task, she preps other ingredients.

“How long do we stir?” I ask, watching as the mixture starts to change.

“Just until mixed well.” She steps beside me and glances over my shoulder. “That’s perfect. Now we let it sit for about five minutes or so.”

I try to ignore the pull I suddenly feel having her right next to me. I catch the scent of her shampoo, the sweet lotion hanging on her skin, the heat of her body being near me. I have to fight the urge to spin around and shove my nose in her neck.

And maybe lick it.

I can’t help but wonder if she feels something too, because she quickly averts her gaze and clears her throat.

“I helpdid, Mommy,” Theo announces, pulling our attention.

“You’re a huge help,” she replies, reaching over and running her hand over his hair.

“Yep!” he agrees, watching as his mom starts to slide measured ingredients over to the bowl.

She moves to the oven and turns it on, preheating to a high degree, and goes to the box and starts digging. “Yes!” she proclaims, pulling a bubble-wrapped item from within.

“Good news?”

“I was afraid it could have broken in all the shuffling around,” she replies, ripping the wrapping off. The pan is a pizza stone. I recognize it immediately. My mom bought it for her for Christmas our senior year of high school. Maren was so excited to receive that pizza stone, and they seasoned it and used it to make homemade pizza the next day.

She walks us through adding the additional ingredients, while pulling a tube of pork sausage from the fridge. “How about I cook the sausage, while you do what you have to do for the dough.”

“Sounds good,” she replies, handing me the meat, while I give her the spatula.

“Okay, Theo, we’re gonna make a mess.”

I can’t help but watch while my pan starts to heat to cook the ground sausage. After cleaning a spot on the counter, she sprinkles flour onto the counter and drops the ball of dough. Then, she retrieves the roller from the drawer, coats it with a thin layer of flour, and gets to work.

“Help me?” she asks, turning the pin so Theo can place his hands on top of hers.

He giggles while they make slow, smooth motions to flatten the crust. I turn my attention to the pan and start to cook the meat. As much as I want to witness their interaction, I keep my focus on the task in front of me. Why? Because every moment I watch the two of them together, I want to take them in my arms and risk my heart all over again.

And I just don’t know if I’m ready for that.

“Are you going to add the cheese?” Maren asks her son.

“Yep, I add cheese.” He rubs his belly and says, “Mmm.”

“Cheese is good,” she replies with a chuckle. She continues to roll the dough until it’s the right size and shape.

“What do you do with the grease?” I ask when the meat is almost ready.