Chapter 66

Hannah

The director, a kind, rosy-cheeked woman in her mid-fifties, introduced herself as Margaret. She beamed at Noah and me as she led us into the orphanage, chattering about its history and her dedication to providing the children with a warm, loving home.

I only half-listened, too busy sneaking glances at Noah. As promised, the slightly crumpled paper crown still perched atop his head, though he kept self-consciously adjusting it.

Unable to help myself, I bit my cheek to stifle a grin. He looked utterly mortified under that silly hat, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the floor. It was…kind of cute, in an odd way. Like a surly teenager accompanying his parents on a dreaded family outing. Only instead of his mother, I was his wife. As we toured the orphanage, I wondered if I’d ever seen him be silly during our marriage. I certainly couldn’t remember a time. What was marriage if we couldn’t be silly together?

After touring the common areas and playrooms, the director paused, turning to face us with a bright smile. “And this next area is—oh!”

My stomach chose that precise moment to let out a long, pitiful grumble, the rumbling echoing loudly in the tiled hallway. I flushed crimson, quickly covering my stomach. After my bout of morning sickness, I hadn’t had time or the stomach to eat the breakfast my handmaid had brought.

The director seemed unbothered; perhaps spending your day with children has that effect. “It sounds like someone needs a meal,” she said with a warm smile. “It’s almost lunchtime; would you like me to have the kitchen prepare something, Luna Hannah?”

“Oh no, there’s no need—” I began, keenly aware of Noah’s sharp gaze.

“But you have to eat, Luna Hannah!” a little girl, an adorable six-year-old with bright red pigtails and a button nose, piped up, tugging at my skirt. “Grown-ups gotta eat too!”

A chorus of agreement rose around me. They seemed hungry—or at least, the promise of food made them think they were.

I shot the director a helpless look, but she laughed and held up her hands. “Well, it seems you’ve been overruled. I’ll have the kitchen staff prepare some—”

Suddenly, I had an idea. “Actually,” I cut her off, raising my hand, “if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind if I handled the cooking myself? I like to cook.”

Dead silence. The director gaped, clearly stunned, while Noah let out a loud bark of laughter from behind me. I whirled, bristling at the mocking gleam in his eyes. “What’s so funny, dear?” I asked, plastering on a fake smile.

Noah smirked, that infuriatingly smug look settling onto his chiseled features. “What’s with you and cooking lately?” he teased, then leaned toward the director. “Hannah rarely cooks.”

My nostrils flared. He was trying to keep his tone light, but I knew better. Still, I maintained my smile.

“It’s true; I don’t cook often,” I admitted. “But lately, I’ve been developing more of an interest in it. And I’d love to prepare something for the children.”

From behind me, I felt Noah’s gaze. But the director simply nodded and smiled warmly at both of us. “I think it sounds fun,” she said. “And it’ll be an excellent chance to show you our cooking facilities.”

She walked down the hall. I followed, casting one last glance at Noah. He was silent.

The kitchen was spacious yet cozy, with clean granite countertops and vintage, but functional, appliances. I felt at home there, like I’d stepped into my grandmother’s kitchen.

“Well then,” I said, clapping my hands and turning to the children. “How does everyone like spaghetti?”

Soon, the scent of aromatic pasta sauce and freshly baked bread wafted through the kitchen. I chopped vegetables, delegating tasks to the workers. Noah, of course, did not lift a finger to help, but he stayed in the doorway, watching with an unreadable expression. I chose to ignore him.

By the time the director checked on our progress, I had the pasta sauce simmering and the bread proofing. When her jaw dropped at the sight of the neat rows of unbaked loaves, I couldn’t help but shoot Noah a smug smile.

“See? I told you. I’ve been reading a lot of recipes lately.”

To my surprise, Noah shrugged, his eyes flickering almost begrudgingly toward the simmering sauce. “I guess I stand corrected.”

Pleased pride surged through me. Obviously, he was still too proud and stubborn to apologize…at least, not in front of anyone else.

Less than an hour later, I strode into the cafeteria, Noah at my heels, a tray loaded with heaping bowls of pasta and several loaves of fresh bread balanced carefully in my hands.

The director ushered us to a table near the front, Noah and I settling at the head while the seats filled around us. I found myself flanked by giggling little girls, all gazing at me with adoration.

Digging into my own bowl, I glanced at Noah to gauge his reaction. He’d already made a sizable dent in his food, shoveling forkfuls of pasta into his mouth as if his life depended on it—a stark contrast to his eating habits at the family banquet when Zoe cooked. “Wow,” I prompted, unable to hide my smirk. “It can’t be that bad if you’re eating so quickly.”

Noah paused mid-bite, his cheeks coloring slightly as he caught me watching. The children closest to us erupted into laughter, clearly picking up on my teasing. For a heart-stopping moment, I wondered if he would offer a scathing retort, or leave. But he didn’t. He sighed and nodded, stabbing another piece of pasta. “Alright, I take back what I said,” he conceded gruffly. “You are a good cook, Hannah.”