"Now, make sure the burner is a medium heat, not too hot. You don't want to burn the onions. Pour them in. Good. Now stir them until they sweat," Marlowe said.

David quirked a brow. “Onions sweat?”

“They do at first. Sweating is drawing the moisture out of the onions. It happens pretty quickly, but be careful as we don’t want to brown them just yet. Sprinkle a bit of salt on them to help,” she said.

“I didn’t know cooking onions was so complicated,” David said, squinting into the pot and stirring.

He looked so cute dressed in his business clothes and floral apron. She’d never tell him that though, she was sure he’d gift her with another of his frowns. “In my opinion, cooking onions is an art. It’s the basis of the recipe. It has to be as good as any building foundation. The rest of the meal is built from it. If that base isn’t good, the meal will not be the best it could be.”

“What am I looking for?” he asked.

She slipped off the stool and stood arm to arm with him. “They will start to wilt and then turn translucent. Good. Turn the heat down a little. See how they’re browning on the edges? They’re starting to caramelize. This is where the flavor starts to develop. I love this smell.”

David leaned over the pot and inhaled. His eyes closed for a moment as he tasted the flavor. He turned to her, “Can’t smell a thing.” A twitch of his lips told her he was trying to be funny.

She stared at him, for a moment speechless in surprise, “Don’t tell me you’re actually making a joke? I can’t believe it! David Walker. Joking about onions!”

The smile lifted to his eyes. They sparkled in a way she hadn’t seen them before. He’d come alive right in front of her eyes. “If you can’t joke about onions, what can you joke about?”

Her insides started to get soft and gooey as she lost herself in the moment. She wanted to keep the smile in them. She waggled her eyebrows. “Just wait until we add the garlic. I could write a book on that.”

He chuckled. The sound was deep and warm and was now her favorite sound. “I can’t wait to read it.”

“Hang on. I have something for you. It’ll help you cook.” She dove to the storage cupboard and shook out a paper chef hat, placing it on his head. “Now you can joke about garlic and onions and anything else food related. You’re officially official.”

“Don’t you want to wait until I finish the cooking before you bestow a hat on me?” he asked.

“No need. I’ll be right by your side, helping you all the way. You’re a pro now,” she stared at his smile. How she loved that smile.

“How long do I have to keep stirring these onions,” he asked.

“Until they’re brown all over and completely limp. It can take anywhere between twenty to forty minutes if you go slow enough.”

“So we’re in for a little bit of a wait?” he asked.

‘Maybe. Depends on how they go," she said.

He gestured the stool with a flick of his chin, “Then settle back, rest and tell me why on earth you do all this.”

“All of what?” She blinked up at him, not knowing what all of this actually was.

“The cooking for the kitchen. The extra shifts. Everything else you do. You work hard, Marlowe and I just wonder why you do it,” he said.

She settled back in the chair, enjoying watching David standing at the oven. It made for a sight she could watch again and again. She sipped the coffee he'd asked Lisa to make. She'd come into the kitchen a little while ago to help man the tables, her baby bump already showing. Marlowe sighed. She thought one day she'd like that. Just that she hadn't met the right man. As the years wore on, and the older she got, the less she found herself attracted to anyone.

Except maybe the man, who in such a short time, had her emotionally wound so up and down she could hire herself out as a roller coaster.

“You’ll think it’s silly.” She didn’t often tell people who drove her to work almost all of the day. Most people didn’t even ask. If she was honest with herself, and some might even tell her she was being used.

"Marlowe. The last thing I'll say is that I think you're silly. You're an intelligent, hard-working woman with a mind of her own and being here, cooking these meals obviously means something to you. I think it's great. Fantastic really. More people should be like you. Including me. I was just wondering why? What drives you to do it?”

Marlowe drew a deep breath. Apart from her parents, she hadn’t told anyone the real reason. David glanced at her, brows raised, waiting and she knew with all certainty he hadn’t asked her to judge her. She knew with all certainly she didn’t have to lie to him. There was a part of him that held a secret that he’d locked tight inside his heart. Maybe one day, if she shared, he’d have the strength to trust her and tell her.

Her heart shifted as a flood of warmth that wasn’t entirely physical entwined something deep within. If she told him, it would be an emotional investment.

Telling him was a secret she’d bore close to her heart. Her reason was highly personal. Sharing it meant she was sharing part of the most inner side of herself. She bit her lip, considering.

She could sense in him an immense sadness, something that was broken, but she didn't think that he would use that to hurt her. She didn't think he did anything to hurt her intentionally. He was just…stuck. If she bared a part of her soul to help him become unstuck though, the reward would be earth-shattering. Enough to last for a very long time.

That was something she was very much interested in.

“I was born in Australia. Came here with my parents when I was fifteen. We were from a little town in the middle of nowhere total population one thousand people. You can imagine how New York, with its population and twenty-four seven lifestyle seemed to a naive teenager. Mum had a hard time settling in, as did my brothers.”

Marlowe placed the pot of potatoes on the stove and set about cleaning up some of the items while she talked. “We’re Catholic. Not very strict. Actually were even less than strict. Anyway, we all went to church one Christmas. Can I tell you, that day changed our life in New York.

“We met people who helped us so much without expecting anything in return. They created a whole community for us, taking us all in so we felt as though we belonged somewhere. A couple of my brothers had a hard time. People are so different here than what they were used to back home, but they introduced them to some other Aussies and soon they were part of a team and playing Sunday footy.”

David nodded. She checked the onions, now nicely brown, gathered the garlic and added it to the pot. She then told David to add the rest of the ingredients while she peeled the potatoes.

"You didn't finish your story," David said.

She pressed her lips together. He'd either think her completely stupid, or he'd get it. She took a deep breath. It was now or never, "It sounds a little silly, but I love to read parts of the Bible. Not that I recite psalms on street corners or anything. I just love the wisdom in the pages. There was one that really stood out to me. Proverbs. It says that if one gives freely, they grow richer, compared to a person who doesn’t give freely and only wants more. If you give, you emotionally grow and are blessed. I think of it as paying it forward.

“People helped us when we emigrated here. They paid it forward to us. Now that I’m in a position to help, I’m going to pay it forward to people who are having a hard time, just like I was.

“I feel like I’m a better person doing what I can to help others and I feel so good about myself. I’m enriched because I help. If Jesus helped people, so can I in my own little way.”

She looked at David. To her surprise, he'd finished mashing the potatoes. She'd been talking all of this time, reliving her memories and hadn't noticed he'd finished the potatoes had boiled them and proceeded to finish off making the mash. He didn't move, just kept his eyes trained on her as though he looked at something he couldn't quite explain.

Her heart sank. Great. The only man she’d been attracted to in such a long time and she’d gone and messed it all up. Way to go, Marlowe. Way to go.