With no chef or anyone else around, Winifred Dawson’s morning plans had completely fallen apart. Left with no choice, she steeled herself and stood up, asking Leland Burns, “What’s for lunch?”
“Just cook whatever’s in the fridge,” he replied. In his memory, Winifred couldn’t cook to save her life. Boiling noodles was already a stretch for her. If she had to survive on her own without takeout or help, she’d probably be stuck eating instant meals.
Winifred walked into the kitchen and tied the apron hanging on the wall. The fridge was enormous-a double-door design with three layers, more like a wardrobe than an appliance. The doors were heavy, and when she pulled them open, she found shelves packed with fresh ingredients, neatly wrapped in cling film.
Four mouths to feed-two adults and two kids-probably wouldn’t require much. She had never seen Leland eat, so she had no idea about his appetite.
Winifred shook her head. Why was she even thinking about him? Whether he ate a lot or a little wasn’t her concern. Besides, someone used to high-quality meals like Leland probably wouldn’t stomach whatever she managed to throw together.
She decided on two dishes and a soup: scrambled eggs with tomatoes, pork bone soup, and a side of cucumber salad. These were the simplest, most foolproof home-cooked dishes she could think of-she’d even seen Garrison Reeves make them before.
Following her memory, she pulled the ingredients from the fridge.
The pork bone was fresh and intact, its marrow preserved by leaving it unbroken. But for it to fit in the pot, the long bone needed to be chopped into two or three sections.
Winifred gripped the kitchen knife, hesitating as she tried to figure out the best angle to split the bone in one clean strike.
From the living room, Leland watched her movements, his gaze fixed on her. His heart pounded strangely until he saw her raise the knife. A sudden tension gripped his chest-what if she hurt herself?
Winifred’s hands were weak. A past injury had left them partially disabled, stiff and clumsy. Daily tasks were manageable, but heavy work was beyond her. Years of recovery hadn’t fully restored the soft tissue damage.
Chopping bones? Garrison would never have let her try.
She debated whether to even attempt the soup. Alternatives like fish or chicken broth existed, but frying fish was beyond her, and chicken still required handling bones.
After weighing her options, the pork bone soup seemed the safest bet. Just chop, boil, and simmer-how hard could it be?
Taste didn’t matter. Finishing was the goal. If she failed today, knowing Leland, he wouldn’t let her off easy.
She took a deep breath, centered the bone on the cutting board, and gripped the knife with both stiff hands. It felt less like cooking and more like chopping firewood. The blade landed weakly, doing nothing to the hard bone but sending painful tremors up her wrists.
Gritting her teeth, she tried again, each strike landing haphazardly. Three attempts in, frustration boiled over, and she started taking it out on the bone.
The kitchen echoed with chaotic banging. Leland’s frown deepened.
Winifred was as hopeless as ever-clumsy, unfamiliar with cooking. At least she held the knife properly, avoiding self-injury. But the noise? Unbearable.
Thankfully, they lived in a standalone villa. In an apartment, this racket would’ve drawn noise complaints.
Then-BANG!
Before he could stop himself, Leland was already behind her, his body moving faster than his mind.
The scene before him: shattered plates, a bone fragment on the floor, the knife discarded, and flecks of red meat pulp smeared across the counter.
Only Winifred could turn cooking into a crime scene.
He hadn’t expected much from her attempt at lunch. Realistically, he expected nothing-that was the only way to respect her culinary skills. But he hadn’t imagined she’d fail this spectacularly, this quickly.
Leland looked down at Winifred, who was crouched, picking up broken shards. “I asked you to cook, not demolish my kitchen.”
Startled, Winifred flinched, her trembling fingers nicking against a sharp edge. Before she could react, Leland yanked her upright.
At the sight of blood on her fingertip, he instinctively moved closer-
Winifred recoiled, alarmed by the sudden intimacy.
Leland caught himself too late, irritation flashing. “Get out.”
She blinked. “But I need to cook-”
He masked his concern with sarcasm. “You really think you can? At this rate, the kids will starve before lunch is ready.”