“Hey.” Seb abandoned smoke duties and crouched down in front of her. “I know you like things to be perfect, but that isn’t how life works.”

“Not lately, that’s for sure. But just this once—” she sniffed “—this once when it mattered so much, I wanted things to go smoothly. And it should have happened. I stuck to my list. I was so careful.”

“You made a list for this evening?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her eyes. “Food. Music. Drink. Lighting. My mother always did the same, and nothing like this ever happened to her. I shouldn’t have cooked duck. She always said to prepare food that didn’t need last-minute attention. I should have cooked salmon.”

“Honey, there’s something I need to tell you.” His voice was serious, and she looked at him, thoroughly miserable, and braced for more disaster.

“What?”

“I’m glad you cooked duck. I hate salmon.”

She stared at him. “You hate salmon?”

He gave a shudder. “Loathe it.”

“But—” How did she not know this? “Is it the way I cook it? Something I do or don’t do?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Nothing to do with the chef.”

“So what do you loathe, exactly?”

“Everything.” He rocked back on his heels. “The taste of it. The slimy texture. The fishy smell. Can’t stand it.”

She blew her nose, her mind absorbed by the wider implications of that confession. “But I make you salmon every week. Omega-3 is important for health. And you always eat it and say it’s great.”

“I’m lying. It isn’t great, although that’s not your fault. I know you’ve spent time in the kitchen, and I appreciate that.”

“I’ve been making you salmon for almost five years. When did you start hating it?”

He pulled a face. “I’ve hated it right from the beginning. Five years.”

“Five years?”

“Fifty-two weeks a year.” He tilted his head and paused. “By my calculation that’s about two hundred and sixty pieces of salmon I’ve managed to force down with a smile. That’s a lot of omega-3. Go me!”

“You... No! That can’t be true. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He lifted his hand and touched her cheek gently. “Because you are working so hard to create this perfect home for us. Feed us the perfect diet. All of it, perfect. And honestly, I didn’t know you that well when we got together. No way was I going to risk offending you by saying I didn’t like something. Also, I was embarrassed. Or maybe self-conscious is a better description.”

“Self-conscious? About not liking salmon?”

“I’m the first to admit that when I met you, I didn’t have the most sophisticated palate. I was a burgers-and-steak guy. If I wanted variety I ate pizza. I was Mr. Eat Out or Take Out. Didn’t know my way round a kitchen. And then, there you were, whipping up elaborate meals and cakes like something out of a TV show, complete with garnish. I had to look that up, by the way. And we ate at the table, not on our laps. Napkins. Silverware. Candles. Civilized living.” His eyes were an intense blue. “Every evening with you was like a date in a smart restaurant. I didn’t know what half the food was.”