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I left them to say their goodbyes and headed to the kitchen. If her racing down the stairs with broken ribs, hurting herself to put some distance between us, was any indication, dinner was going to be awkward.
After patting the chicken dry, I drizzled a bit of olive oil over the skin, liberally seasoning with salt and pepper and made quick work of chopping a small onion and a lemon to go into the cavity.
Tierney entered the kitchen as I was snipping the long sprig of rosemary into more manageable sizes and stuffing them inside the bird.
She watched intently as I pushed the pan into the oven and set the timer, but she didn’t speak.
“You want to make the potatoes?” I asked, flipping the knife in my hand, pinching the blade between my fingers and offering her the handle.
Her eyes danced along the blade. I wasn’t sure if she was considering the offer or appreciating the sleek lines of the chef’s knife I held.
Whatever the reason for her hesitation, she shook her head, her tightly pursed lips, a dam holding back her reply.
“Ok.” I shrugged.
I pulled three potatoes from the bag and rinsed them under the cold water before slicing them into thin discs.
From the corner of my eye, I watched her watch me as I whisked together the sauce and layered it with the potatoes in the pan before adding it to the oven alongside the chicken.
“It’ll be nearly an hour and a half until that’s ready. Can I make you a drink?” I offered, pointing in the direction of the wet bar.
“Not sure alcohol is the smartest choice with every hitter in the region out to kill us. Maybe some tea?” she said, cocking her brow, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Tea.”
“Mmm. I would normally have a glass of wine at the end of the day.” She shrugged.
“I might have just the thing.” I said, holding my finger up.
Reaching in the cabinet, I pulled out the silver bag from my favorite local tea shop. My hands worked on auto-pilot, measuring the loose tea into the infuser and setting the kettle to boil, just as they had done countless times before.
I pulled two mugs from the cabinet, frowning internally at the thin layer of dust covering the second. A quiet testament that I didn’t often have people over for a meal.
Now that I thought about it, it had been nearly a year since I’d had anyone over. Connor came to stitch up a nasty knife wound, and I asked her to stay for breakfast.
Ok. Maybe ask was too strong a word. She poured herself a cup of coffee and dropped at my breakfast table, mumbling something about not being able to drive before she had caffeine.
The hot water made quick work of the dusty mug. Tierney looked on with mild amusement as I set them both in front of her, placing two spoons and a small pot of honey beside them.
“Fancy.” she quipped.
I scoffed, “not hardly. Honey is the only acceptable sweetener for tea.”
“Sugar is fine. Uppity basta—”
I gave my head a hard shake, trying to rid my mind of her ridiculous words. “Not happening and that is a hill I will die on.”
Her hands flew up in mock surrender, the small half-smile playing at the corner of her lips whispered that maybe I hadn’t fucked up quite as badly as I thought.
“So, what is this exactly? It smells like Christmas morning.” She said, peering at the cranberry colored liquid in the kettle.
“Tea.”
“No shit.”
I laughed, filling both cups and adding a drizzle of honey as I explained. “It’s spiced tea, kind of like chai, only it has a fruity sweetness, from plums, I think. Figured it might be a fair substitute for your evening glass of wine.”
Leaning in, she breathed in the spicy aroma, her eyes sliding shut as her palms closed around the mug. Her rigid posture relaxed the moment her lips touched the rim.