Page 23 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)

Matt did not expect to see Jordan at the hardware store. And certainly not in the potting soil aisle, of all places. Jordan was holding a trowel with the kind of confidence that suggested he had never killed a houseplant in his life.

Matt was holding a wrench he didn’t need, wondering how quickly he could disappear without looking like a coward, or worse, a jealous ex-husband in cargo shorts.

Jordan saw him first. “Matt?”

Curses.

“Jordan. Fancy seeing you here. Buying dirt?”

Jordan raised an eyebrow.

“Potting mix. For the basil. The kids said Sarah likes cooking again.”

Of course she was cooking again. Probably while humming and glowing.

“That’s great,”

Matt replied, trying to play it cool.

Jordan studied him for a beat, then did something that absolutely caught Matt off guard. He smiled. A real, patient, adult-man-who-does-yoga-on-purpose kind of smile.

“I like Sarah,”

he said plainly.

“She’s smart. Funny. Way too forgiving.”

Matt blinked. “Thanks?”

“But,”

Jordan continued, setting down the trowel.

“she’s still in love with you.”

Matt’s mouth opened. Closed.

“That... doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,”

Jordan said.

“But I know what it looks like when someone’s moving on. Sarah isn’t. Not really. And I’m not the kind of guy who tries to win a race that’s already over.”

Matt was quiet for a moment, the implications twisting in his gut like a roller coaster operated by a drunk intern.

“Then why are you still around?” he asked.

“Because I like her. And I respect her. And I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d mess it up again.”

Jordan gave him a small shrug.

“But you didn’t... and I recognize a man trying to fix his mistakes and make amends.”

Matt almost laughed.

“You’re giving me a pep talk. That’s... bizarre.”

Jordan clapped him on the shoulder.

“Nah. Just giving the guy who wrecked it all a fair shot at rebuilding it.”

Matt watched him walk away, as casual as ever. Somehow more confident and less smug than he wanted him to be.

He stood there another five minutes, clutching the useless wrench.

Then he dropped it and walked straight to the checkout line, with a basil starter and a bag of potting mix.

If Sarah wanted to cook, he’d learn to garden. Or at least fake it until the plant dies, trying.

Later that week, Matt did something unthinkable. He cooked.

Matt had never really cooked before. Sure, he could toast a bagel. He could boil pasta and sort of time it correctly if he stared at the pot long enough. But tonight, he was going all in: homemade chicken piccata with roasted vegetables. It was either a romantic gesture or a full-blown fire hazard. Possibly both.

He had Googled three recipes, cross-referenced them as if he were defusing a bomb, and printed the one with the fewest steps but the highest number of positive comments from people with names lik.

“MidwestMom96”

an.

“GaryLovesFood.”

He was optimistic. That was mistake number one.

He questioned his decision to buy a basil plant. It sat in the corner of the kitchen like a taunting green reminder of his conversation with Jordan.

“Don’t die yet,”

Matt muttered to it.

“She hasn’t seen you.”

He sliced lemons, over-squeezing one directly into his own eye, then proceeded to coat the chicken breasts in flour like a man tenderizing his own soul. He only dropped one on the floor. Five-second rule. Maybe ten.

The kitchen smelled... promising. Like something edible might eventually appear. He plated the food with shaky hands, added a sprig of basil like a professional fraud, and poured two glasses of wine.

He had texted Sarah earlier to ask her over for dinner at 7 pm. When she learned he was cooking, she knew she wouldn't miss it.

He texted her as he was adding the final touches:

Matt: If I burn down the building, feel free to take the kids and sue me.

She replied two minutes later:

Sarah: Do I need to bring a fire extinguisher or just my skepticism?

He grinned.

At 6:57, she arrived. No makeup. Jeans. That faded blue sweater she always wore when she needed comfort or had PMS. He couldn’t tell which this was.

The apartment had been cleaned to the point of obsession. The counter sparkled.

The lighting was dim and just dramatic enough to imply competence. Sarah stood in the doorway, one brow raised.

“You really did cook.”

“I attempted,”

Matt said.

“There’s a fine line.”

She stepped inside, sniffed the air.

“Smells like lemon and desperation.”

He pulled out her chair.

“Accurate.”

They ate. Slowly. No kids. No TV. Just the sound of forks scraping and two people chewing through their shared history.

After a few bites, Sarah looked at him.

“This is actually good.”

Matt exhaled, visibly relieved.

“You mean it?”

“I wouldn’t lie about food. That’s sacred.”

He sipped his wine and nodded.

“I’ve been trying.”

“I can tell.”

A long pause.

“I think I like you jealous,”

she said playfully.

“The cooking and the basil and the slow dance of self-improvement.”

He set his glass down.

“I want to be the kind of man you’d fall in love with again. Even if you never do.”

Sarah looked down at her plate, then back at him. Her eyes were soft but cautious.

“Don’t make me love dinner. That’s how it starts.”

He gave a half-smile.

“You can love the food. Just don’t love me yet. That part’s going to take more time.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she finished her meal, let him box up the leftovers for her, and kissed him lightly on the cheek before leaving. It wasn’t a yes.

But it wasn’t a no either.

The apartment felt too quiet once the door clicked shut. Matt leaned against the counter, staring at the leftover wine in her glass. He could still smell the lemon and garlic. And her perfume.

His phone buzzed.

Tyler: Jules is asking again. Marley’s still single. You in for Saturday? Low-pressure. Drinks and bowling. Think of it as exposure therapy.

Matt stared at the message, thumb hovering. He didn’t want to play games. He didn’t want to fake moving on. But he also didn’t want to stay stuck.

He typed back.

Matt: Yeah. Set it up. Saturday’s fine.

Another buzz.

Tyler: Look at you, healing and no longer groveling. Proud of you, man.

Matt didn’t reply. He poured himself another glass of wine, telling himself it was just a date.