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“The structure. Helping people. Serving my country. The action,” I admit.

“Maybe you could do that here. You could be a police officer,” she suggests. “Or some kind of security guy. You’re so smart. Maybe you could be a consultant of some kind.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

I finish my chicken and open the oven, sliding the baking dish inside.

I sit at the kitchen counter and watch as Blake finishes her meal and grabs some plates.

“Ready for the main course?” she asks.

“Oh, my dish still has ten minutes left in the oven,” I tease.

“Ha ha,” she mumbles as she sets a plate in front of me and sits in the chair next to mine. “Dig in.”

Blake has made spaghetti and meatballs, and we both take a bite. She’s a good cook, and I swallow down a moan as the taste of oregano, garlic, and parmesan cheese hits my taste buds.

“Not bad,” I say.

She glares at me. “It’s perfect, and you know it.”

“It’s really good, but will it beat my roast chicken and vegetables?”

She smirks. “I’m not worried.”

I finish my spaghetti, and the timer goes off. I slide out of my chair and take the chicken out of the oven.

“It looks good,” Blake says.

“It looks like it should be on the cover of a magazine.”

She laughs and nods. “It does. Smells good, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you cook a lot in the Rangers?”

“Not much. My mom taught Milo and me when we were growing up. My parents were big on us learning basic life skills, so every weekend, it was a new skill.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We learned how to change the oil on a car, change a tire, how to cook, bake, and clean. I can sew pretty well, and Milo is scary good with a pair of knitting needles.”

“That’s great. I wish that I’d been taught half of that growing up.”

“How did you learn to cook, then?” I ask as I cut the chicken and make each of us a plate.

“I had to. My last foster home wasn’t the best. All of the kids had to do chores, and since I was the eldest, I was in charge of cooking and cutting the grass.”

I set her plate down in front of her and sit next to her. We both dig in, and she moans as she pops a bite of chicken into her mouth.

“Okay, you win,” she says as she takes another bite.

“No way. Your spaghetti was so good. You win.”

She shakes her head, and I smile as she eats a carrot.

“So, it’s a draw, then,” she says.