She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 194

(Chase)

Natasha leaves at four for the therapy appointment her doctor arranged for her.

I’m glad she’s finally dealing with her PTSD and not continuing to pretend being kidnapped by Bauer was just another Thursday.

Or that finding out her brother is her uncle just rolled off her back.

It’s the first time she’s asked me to take care of Lily when she has something to do and it’s not Lily’s allocated days with me.

It’s kind of a big deal, whether she wants to admit it or not.

"Her bottle's in the fridge. She had a nap at two. Sorry, you know her as well as I do."

The glowiest of praise.

I’m careful not to let it go to my head.

"Don’t be sorry, and don’t be nervous. It’s going to be good for you to talk to someone."

"I guess."

She stops in the doorway with her hand on the knob.

"Chase."

"Yeah."

"Don't burn down my house."

I take that. I'd take more if she handed it to me.

Lily is in the bouncer in the corner of the kitchen, watching me with the look she gets when she's deciding whether to commit to a feeling.

I look back at her.

"Do you think mommy would like pasta for dinner?" I ask her.

It’s not quite five yet, but I’ve gotten it into my head that it would be a nice surprise to have dinner ready and waiting for Natasha when she gets back.

A task taken from her plate.

Lily babbles at me excitedly

"I knew you’d agree with me. Pasta it is."

It’s also the only thing I think I may be able to cook.

It seems straightforward enough.

I find a pot.

I find pasta.

I find a jar in the pantry that says PASTA SAUCE BASE on it in Natasha's handwriting.

When I open it, I discover it's tomatoes.

Just tomatoes. In a jar with some liquid.

They’ve obviously been cooked, but there’s nothing else in there with them.

I look at the tomatoes.

Lily makes a small sound of encouragement.

"You’re absolutely right."

I’ve eaten thousands of plates of pasta.

I have never made one.

I grew up with cooks who provided all of my meals.

Once I moved to the penthouse, I had a service deliver hand-crafted meals daily.

When I’m not in the mood for those, I go to a restaurant.

I’m thirty-one years old and I don’t know what part of the pasta you cook first.

After briefly considering looking up a recipe on G****e, I firmly push that idea aside.

I’ve been the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. I’m not a complete idiot.

I can figure out how to cook pasta without a video tutorial.

I put water on to boil. That feels right.

I chop garlic. I’ve seen garlic chopped on television. I'm chopping it the way it's chopped on television.

I put oil in a pan and turn the flame on high.

The oil starts to do something I'm not sure about. I throw the garlic in.

It’s black in eight seconds.

"Okay," I tell Lily. "First attempt is a learning attempt. It doesn’t count."

I scrape the contents of the pan into the bin and start again.

Much less flame this time.

New garlic.

This time it goes the color it's supposed to and I feel briefly competent.

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