With a slower rhythm than I used in my catering kitchen, I start dinner. There is a different kind of pleasure cooking here. I’m not in a rush. Instead, I sink into the essence of the food, the crisp sound of my knife slicing through red peppers, the fresh clean scent the vegetable gives off as its flesh yields to the blade.

My breathing becomes slow and deep, almost as if I’m meditating.

I’d stopped cooking like this—for an individual, for myself. Somehow cooking had become a race, a need to prove my talent, but in doing so, I’d distanced myself from the very thing I love.

“You thinking deep thoughts, Tot?”

Macon’s voice pulls me out of my zone with a jolt. He’s by the kitchen booth, sitting in a patch of amber sunlight that colors his skin deep bronze. It also emphasizes the bruising around his eye and the lines of strain along his mouth. He’s leaning back in the wheelchair with a casual air, but there is a deliberate stillness about him that makes his pose a lie. He is in pain.

“I was actually thinking about how much I love to cook,” I tell him, moving to the fridge.

“Just as long as you’re not contemplating another tomato launch,” he says lightly.

I cut him a glance, and he widens his eyes as if entirely innocent. Snorting, I pull out some milk. “Alas, the tomatoes are all used up. But I do have an extra head of cauliflower, so I wouldn’t tempt me.”

“Ouch.” He holds a hand up in surrender. “I’ll be good now. Cross my heart.” Biting back a smile, he draws an X over his broad chest, then tracks my movements as I collect honey and spices. “You always did flow around a kitchen like you were dancing to music only you could hear.”

My brows lift, a beat skipping in my heart. “Did I?”

“You never noticed?” He runs the edge of his thumb along the armrest of his chair, eyes on the movement. “I used to envy that ease. How you found a place to fit in perfectly.”

“One place,” I correct thickly. “Whereas you fit in everywhere else.”

He takes that in with a short exhale, and his lips press together, caught between a smile and a grimace. “Looks can be deceiving.” He nods toward me. “What are you doing now?”

“Making some turmeric lattes.” I put the spiced milk under the foaming nozzle on the espresso machine and let it froth and heat. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and turmeric fills the air.

“It smells like Thanksgiving,” he says as I pour the lattes into two cups.

“Here.” I offer him one and then take a seat on the booth.

Macon moves up to the end of the table, then takes a sip. “Delicious.”

“Mmm . . . turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, which can help with pain.”

He pauses, eyes meeting mine over the rim of his porcelain cup. “It isn’t that bad.”