This Kitchen's Not The Same Without You Novels & Stories

The skeletal trees are placed like brushstrokes. — The kitchen, he continues, pushing open a door hidden in a partition. It gleams with stainless steel and frosted glass. Everything is tidy, aligned. No pots hang, no fruit sits in a bowl. You could perform open-heart surgery here. — It's fully equipped. A chef comes three times a week, if I'm entertaining. Otherwise, you will fend for yourself. He says "you will fend for yourself" as one might say "you will breathe." An organic function, devoid of pleasure.

Matteo said, already walking off. “Luca’s not even there yet,” Damon added with a casual wave. “Probably drinking coffee somewhere, brooding.” “Great,” I muttered under my breath. “More brooding.” The kitchen was too quiet. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, bouncing off the polished countertops and the massive oak table in the center. I stepped in slowly, expecting someone—anyone—to be there. But it was empty. No cooks. No guards. No Luca. Just me and the hum of the fridge in the corner.

"Please, I don't have any food at home to make things, and I know your kitchen is stocked up." "I'll have someone." "No, I want to do it," I insist. "I'll starve out of protest." "Curse you and your rock-solid backbone," he mumbles, and I grin, walking through the massive corridors and foyer to his kitchen. I didn't get a good look at it the last time we were here. The kitchen wasn't really for guests, so I only glanced in while someone made our lunch. It's stunning, all white countertops, bright light fixtures, neutral backsplashes, farmhouse sinks, and stainless steel. I love it.

"You don't need to go upstairs. There is nothing—" "I would like some water," she said. She had turned toward the kitchen instead. I exhaled quietly. She pushed open the kitchen door and looked inside. Her eyes moved across the counters. The empty surfaces. The absence of anything that suggested a woman lived here. No herbs by the window. No handwritten notes on the refrigerator. No small personal touches that Janet had always scattered through spaces she inhabited. "Why is your kitchen so dry?" Grandma said. "We renovated," I said. She turned and looked at me slowly.

“You could have told her you were already on the property." “And ruin the drama of a grand entrance?" I laughed. “Of course. How inconsiderate of me." He grinned, and the heaviness in my chest subsided. The final stop was the kitchen, which might have been my favorite. It maintained the same dark aesthetic. “I could live in this kitchen," I confessed, and his response gave me pause. “You could," he replied. “It is technically mine." My heart repeated that stupid little stutter before I whispered to myself, “There it is again. That confusing talk."

“You are right sweetheart. I wanted to enjoy a few more minutes alone with you, but this cannot wait.” We had finished our shower and were both dressed by this point, but I took another minute to twirl my dark tresses into a bun before taking my mate’s hand as we descended the stairs together. We found the others scattered around what remained of the cooking area. The island that had once stood in the center of the gorgeous kitchen was gone, an empty spot taking its place and making the room seem too big with its absence. My eyes were drawn by the eclectic spread of food that Ronnie had set out on one of the remaining counters.

And sometimes, you just need someone else to remind you that you still can. We sit there for a while, both of us staring at the wall. Two women who used to laugh over wine and nail polish and celebrity gossip, now holding onto each other because the men we loved are turning into strangers. “You want tea?” I finally ask. Amirah exhales. “God, yes. And please, none of that diet crap. I want sugar and honey and all of it.” A small smile curls at my lips. “Coming right up.” As I walk into the kitchen, the air feels a little lighter. Not because anything’s fixed. But because I’m not alone in this mess.

The scent of her cooking is still the same—garlic, onions, home. “Knoxx?” I ask without looking directly at her. “Does he still...?” She shakes her head. “Not for a while now. He left a long time ago.” I nod, pretending that doesn’t sting. The house is quiet. Different without his presence. But also safe. Comfortable.

"It sounds like you've found your place, Emily. We always knew you were destined for greatness. But don't forget, you always have a home here with us. The kitchen isn't the same without your culinary wizardry." I smiled gratefully, overwhelmed by the love and acceptance I felt in that moment. These were the people who had supported me, nurtured my passion for cooking, and become a second family to me. The memories of shared laughter, late-night preparations, and the exhilaration of a bustling dinner rush flooded my mind, reminding me of the unbreakable bond we shared.

I heard that he's talking to someone since he didn't close the door properly. "Just saw your email about the kitchen design.. I like the classy one.. I change my mind.. My wife needs a kitchen and I didn't even think that I will get married and my wife needs a kitchen.. Just come finish it before wednesday before she comes back.. it might give her a little bit of boost seeing it after work.." That made me smile.