Billionaire, I Am Not Your Wife! novel Chapter 208

Chapter 203: Little Progress

I went to the kitchen.

Lucian was on a call, it seemed to be work related since he was using his low voice he subconscioulsy switched to, when it was work related and he held up one finger at me: *one minute*. I sat at the kitchen table and listened to the flat, which was quiet except for Lucian’s murmur and the occasional sound from Lake’s corner. Page turning. A

Lucian finished his call. Sat down across from me. “Lake knew it was just you tonight,” he said. “I told him this morning.”

“How did he take it?”

“He was quiet.” Lucian looked at his hands briefly. “He asked if Drew was coming next week.”

“Is he?”

“Probably.” He looked at me. “Cameron. He’s-it’s going to take time. He’s not-”

“I know,” I said. “I’m not pushing.”

“I know you’re not.” He paused. “I just-I want you to know I see it. What you’re doing. Showing up and not making it a thing.”

“It shouldn’t be a thing,” I said. “He’s four. He’s working with what he has. I’m just-adding to the data set.”

Lucian looked at me for a moment with the full-register look. Then he nodded.

We made dinner together. This was new-usually Lucían cooked and I sat at the table, but this time he handed me a knife and indicated the onions and I took the instruction without comment. We worked in the parallel quiet of it, and from the living room came Lake’s self-narration, and the flat smelled like oil and onions and whatever Lucian had marinating since that morning.

At six-thirty, Lake appeared in the kitchen doorway.

He looked at the two of us. At the stove, at the counter, at me holding a wooden spoon because Lucian had redirected me from the knife to the stirring.

“What is that?” Lake said. Pointed at what I was stirring.

“Stew,” I said.

“My dad’s stew?”

“I’m stirring your dad’s stew,” I said. “He made it.”

Lake looked at Lucian. Some communication passed between them that I couldn’t read-child and parent shorthand, the compressed language of two people who had been each other’s primary company for four years.

Then Lake came to the kitchen table and sat down. He didn’t say anything else. He took the small book

he’d carried from his reading corner and opened it on the table and continued reading.

He was in the room. With me. Without Drew as the reason.

I kept stirring.

He looked up when I came in. We looked at each other.

“Your dad’s on a call,” I said.

“I know,” Lake said. “He’s been on it since he picked me up.”

I’m going to start dinner,” I said. “Do you know what you’re having?”

“Pasta,” Lake said. “It’s in the blue pot.” He pointed, without looking, at the cupboard above the stove. The gesture of someone who knew where everything was.

I found the pot. Found the pasta. Found the sauce Lucian had clearly prepped in a container in the refrigerator with a sticky note on top that said twenty minutes, medium heat* in Lucian’s precise handwriting, which told me he’d known this call might run long and had prepared accordingly.

Of course he had.

I started the pasta. Lake did his worksheet. The kitchen was quiet in a way that was not comfortable and not uncomfortable-the specific neutral quiet of two people who had not yet found the key to the room they were standing in but were standing in it anyway.

I didn’t try to make conversation.

Lake did his worksheet. I checked the pasta. Lucian’s voice came from the other room in the low careful register. The kitchen light was warm.

At one point Lake got up to get water from the tap. He refilled his glass, looked at the pot, and said: “It’s boiling.”

“I see it.”