The Dinner, the Fall, and the Towel
NARA POV
Dinner was simple but perfect—grilled chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and a side of laughter.
Nick insisted on cooking even though he didn’t know how to do anything beyond scrambling eggs. He wore one of those ridiculous “Kiss the Chef” aprons over a plain white T-shirt and kept waving a wooden spoon like it was a magic wand.
“Chef Nicholas at your service,” he said, bowing deeply. “Tonight’s menu: probably burnt, definitely under-seasoned.”
“And possibly poisonous,” I added with a smirk.
“Such faith in your husband. You wound me, woman.”
“You stabbed the chicken five times and dropped salt like you were cursing it.”
“Seasoning with passion,” he said proudly.
Despite his “methods,” the food came out surprisingly edible. Maybe even go
