Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(35)

But maybe I’ve only been looking at the good pieces to convince myself that I belong.

“Someone will,” he says firmly. “And not just in a romantic sense. Lenora and I are lucky to have you, too. I’m sure Riley would say the same.”

I blush. “Maybe.”

He pats my shoulder. “Let’s go home, kiddo. The missus will beat us back at this rate.”

The school is a ghost town when we leave the classroom. We walk in easy silence back to his car, and I cast one look back toward the field where the teams have started practicing. I can pick out Liam and Theo in their football jerseys, easy to spot with their last names on their backs.

At the top of the cheerleading pyramid is Amelie, smiling like a conqueror. On the second level, seeming pained with Amelie’s knee in her back, is Savannah.

Interesting.

Only last week, she was the one on top. I give her credit where it’s due: she’s a good cheerleader. Except, clearly, Amelie is better. Brighter. Hell, she radiates joy even when she’s not trying.

I take a mental step back. Maybe she is trying, and that’s her secret.

And maybe…

“Margo?”

I stop, and my head snaps forward. I was about an inch from walking right into Robert’s car. “Oops.”

He frowns. “Did you think any more on trying out for a sport?”

“I don’t know what I’d go for,” I say.

He shrugs. “If you’re into a winter sport, there’s basketball or ice hockey—we have excellent women’s teams in both. Spring, there’s rowing, tennis, lacrosse…”

I perk up. “Rowing like… on the river?”

“Yeah, they get up early, though. I think they practice before school.” He unlocks the car and shrugs. “I won’t pressure you. There are a lot of things you can do, and we can arrange rides to get you to practice if you decide to go for rowing.”

“I’ll think about it.” I pull up the sport on my phone, reading about it as he drives back to his house. Our house.

Rowing—also called crew—can be in a one-person boat or teams up to eight. I don’t know what Emery-Rose Elite offers, but the videos of people skimming across the top of the water are fascinating.

“I think I want to try,” I say, once we’re out of the car. “Do you know when tryouts are?”

“No, but I can find out.”

He opens the door, and we’re greeted with a wonderful smell.

“We’re home, Len. Your cooking spells wonderful!”

She rounds the corner wearing a bright-red apron. She grins at us. “Just in time.”

“For what?” I ask. It’s barely three-thirty.

“For you to help me.” She pulls something from behind her back, holding it out to me.

“My own apron?” I ask.

It’s light blue.

A lump forms in my throat.

“Yes, it has your name on it and everything.” She taps the embroidered Margo on the top left. “Come on, before I burn everything.”

I drop my bag and follow her into the kitchen, where there are a million bowls. Okay, more like six, but still.

“This is…” I swallow.

“Overwhelming?” She pats my shoulder and shakes out my apron, putting it over my head.

I take the ties and secure it around my waist.

“We take this one veggie at a time. I’ll show you how to chop an onion without crying and then we’ll move on to easier stuff.”

She shows me, and I’ll admit that she’s as good of a teacher as Robert. Maybe that’s why they’re happy together. She gets to work seasoning chicken and preparing the oven. We work in silence for a few minutes.

“What are we making?”

“I figured we would start with chicken parm,” she says. “But we need to make the sauce, so once you’re done with the onions, we’ll put them in oil with some garlic, then add our fire-roasted tomatoes and the can of sauce.” She lifts one shoulder. “I like to cheat a little.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The meal comes together quickly, and the afternoon flies into evening. An hour later, she hands me oven mitts and lets me retrieve the dish from the oven. Cheesy, saucy chicken greets us. The top of the cheese is a perfectly crisp and smells amazing.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to do something like this,” I admit. I carry it to the table and set it on a rack.

Lenora brings the salad we made over, along with a bowl of pasta and garlic bread. A full feast.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help,” she says. “My mother once told me to have at least one meal you’re good at. That you can make for potluck parties or holidays. If you have more than one, that’s fine. I always loved a good chicken parmesan. Something about it just tastes like home.”

I smile. “It’s a good one.”

“If you want to choose a meal to perfect in your own way, we can pick up the ingredients and make it next week,” she offers.

“That would be fun.”

Robert comes in, eyeing the table. “My mouth has been watering for the last half hour,” he admonishes. “And now that it’s ready, you don’t even call me?”