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It was more than just tasting a simple spaghetti sauce.

It was a memory.

A memory that could have gone one of two ways—he’d enjoy it or hate it.

I had to stop myself from jumping up and down and doing a damn cartwheel when he said his mother would have been proud.

He wasn’t lying either.

Julian might not have realized it, but I saw the pleasure on his face.

His eyes shut, his shoulders relaxing, as he tasted the sauce.

Earlier, I’d ordered groceries, and as soon as they were delivered, I started making the sauce. It was done for thirty minutes, and I kept the flame on low with high hopes that he’d come home.

If he didn’t, I doubted I’d cook for him again.

Cooking is a labor of love.

The oven beeps, the heat temperature met, and I slide the garlic bread onto a shelf. Then, I grab the pot of spaghetti and drain it.

Making tonight’s dinner was fun.

It took my mind away from my problems.

Marta said it did the same with her.

Man, how I miss her and Melissa.

I swipe away a tear from my cheek at the same time I hear Julian returning downstairs, now dressed in gray sweats and a NY Yankees sweatshirt. He’s hot as hell in suits but seeing him casual is just as attractive. It also makes him seem more approachable.

“Oh, and thank you for the flowers,” I say, motioning toward the vase on the island. “How’d you know I love peonies and am used to getting them every day?”

He grabs the bottle of wine, tops off my glass, and fills the other. “I know everything.” Taking the glass with him, he settles on a stool.

I roll my eyes. “Okay,why’dyou get me peonies?”

“You’ve had so much taken away from you suddenly. Your normal life gone. I hoped something as simple as your favorite flower would make you feel like your life could become a little bit more normal again.”

Oh my God.

Speaking of normal … who is this man?

This isn’t my normal Julian.

The one I’ve known for nearly a decade.

If sauce makes him this nice, I’ll keep the stuff in stock.

Can it up and fill the cabinets with it.

“Dinner is almost finished,” I tell him.

He looks around, scanning our surroundings, and his gaze stops on the dining room table. It’s already set, and four candles are lit in the center.

I hate that his eyes narrow in on it.

Like the candles did something to personally piss him off.