She turns back to the center island and the cutting board there and sees me. The loose-limbed ease of her body dies. She’s all twitchy now, eyeing me like a feral barn cat as if I might try to lash out and catch her.

Tempting.

As though she suspects the direction of my thoughts, she straightens and adopts a casual pose like she never sat on my lap, never let me pet her as the sun set. “Don’t tell me you’re hungry again.”

No mention of the cuddle or the uncomfortable conversation about Sam. For that, I’m grateful. Maybe it’s for the best that we don’t talk about Sam. Ever.

I move farther into the warmth of the kitchen. “Since you got here, I’m always hungry.”

She can make of that what she wants.

She’s been bent over a stove, so the flush on her cheeks might be from the heat. Or maybe not. She nods toward a pressed tin container on the counter. “I made some oat bars. Nothing exciting, but they’re on your approved list.”

“I think we both know how I feel about that damn list.”

The corners of her lips curl in amusement. “Yes, we do.”

I stand at the end of the counter, close enough to be within touching distance but not crowd her. “What are you making now?”

She’s got two pots going, one of them covered.

“A bordelaise sauce.” At my interested look, she grabs a spoon out of the canister filled with clean ones that she keeps near the stove and dips it in the pot before handing it to me.

The sauce is a glossy mahogany, and when I slip it into my mouth, I close my eyes and groan. Rich, deep, dense—I don’t have the words to do it justice.

I open my eyes to find her staring with an unreadable expression on her face.

“God damn, Tot.” I lick the spoon, desperate to get another taste. I whimper this time.

Delilah watches me, and her nostrils flare like she’s sucking in a quick breath, but her voice remains smooth as old silk. “Don’t worry; I won’t be using much of it. Just a spoonful on top of a flat iron steak. Shouldn’t be too many calories.”

I cut her a reproachful glare. “Don’t you dare skimp. I’d bathe in this if I could.”

With a husky laugh, she takes my spoon and puts it in the sink. “As delightful as that image sounds, let’s keep the sauce on our plates.”

“That’s not half as fun.” I pull out a stool and sit to alleviate the ache in my leg.

Delilah eyes me. “You hurting a lot today?”

Since she’s already taken me to task for denying my pain, I answer her truthfully. “Yes.”

With a hum, she starts on a turmeric latte. I don’t know how much they actually reduce pain, but it’s soothing and something made just for me. I accept her gift and curl my fingers around the cup, stealing its warmth.

Delilah has opened up a journal and is reading heavily marked pages. The leather-bound journal looks much like the ones I use, though hers is battered and splattered with various food and oil stains. She jots down a note in the margin of what looks to be a recipe, then catches me watching her.

“My recipe journal.” She closes it. “Early on, we’re taught to write things down. Memories can fade. But I also use it to develop recipes or make note of an idea.”

Her slim hand, as battered as her book, rests protectively over the cover. She eyes me warily as though I might poke fun at her. It touches a nerve deep within that her trust in me is so thin, that my past actions caused this lack of trust. So I give her the only thing I can: my own vulnerability.

“I journal too.” I take a sip of latte. “Not recipes, of course. But notes about my role. Or what happened on set that day, so I’ll remember it when I’m old.”

Her butterscotch eyes grow wide. “Truly?”

“It is so surprising?”

She blinks and gives a little shake of her head. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess I can’t picture you taking the time to write things down.”

“Everything important to me, I write down.” Shrugging, I palm the cup again. “Or I do now. Back when I lived at home, I wouldn’t dare. Nothing in my room was safe from being confiscated.”

Her lips part in surprise. Yeah, I don’t suspect she had any idea how truly confined I was as a kid. An old discomfort rolls through me, as ugly and itchy as a hair shirt. I shed that past long ago, but some things never truly go away; we just try to forget them as best as we can.

“I got into writing after high school.” After the letter. Another twang of regret plucks me. I don’t mention that damn letter. I have some pride. “Helps me gather my thoughts.”