I didn’t see Hunter the rest of the week. We barely talked either and only traded a handful of texts. He said he’d be over around six for dinner, so I had herb roasted chicken in the oven and risotto on the stove. When the risotto was almost done, I added zucchini, squash, and asparagus to a skillet and sautéed them with olive oil and a light sprinkle of herbs.
“It smells good in here,” Peyton said, joining me in the kitchen. She opened a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass.
“Thanks,” I said, taking mine from her.
“What are you cooking?”
“Chicken, risotto, and vegetables.”
“I wish I could cook like you do.”
“I can teach you,” I suggested.
As always, Peyton glared at me. She never had an interest in cooking. Even when we were little, she was more interested in almost anything e
