Chapter Two Elliott
Chapter Two
Elliott
She blinked. “Go with you?”
“Yeah, so those reservations don’t go to waste. If, you know, you didn’t have other plans tonight?”
A swirl of excitement burst beneath her ribs, and she almost said yes on the spot, if only because there was something about this man that made her wish their time wasn’t over just yet. She probably should have been apprehensive about the prospect of going somewhere with a strange man she’d exchanged no more than a few sentences with.
But,
This kind of thing never happened to her. There was something inherently flattering about a man like Jamie asking her on a date. Or technically, someone else’s date, but she wasn’t in a position to be picky.
French vanilla soufflé.
She might die tomorrow or shortly thereafter.
And most importantly, if Number 3 came true, she’d love nothing more than to have her last act be something that would shock Yuka.
“Sure,” she heard herself say before she’d consciously made a decision.
He straightened, his torso tilting back in a surprised gesture that made him even more adorable. As if he had no idea how tempting those glasses and that dimple were, and had thrown out the invitation fully expecting a gentle letdown. “Really?”
“Yeah, it sounds fun. And you made me crave dessert. It’s basically your duty now to deliver.”
His lips spread into a broad smile— Hello, there —flashing impossibly white teeth. “It starts in ten minutes, so we’ll need to get moving.” He downed his beer and gestured to Gus. “Close us out, will you? Just put both on my tab.”
Reddish-orange brows rose, but Gus said nothing beyond, “You got it, man.”
Jamie stood—damn, he was tall—and Elliott grabbed her phone before sliding off her own stool. His hazel eyes were bright and happy, lips pressed together as if he was trying not to smile. “I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh. It’s ...” Elliott paused, Yuka’s words flashing across her brain. You’ve got all night to be something other than a cancer patient for once. Live it up, honey.
Elliott’s life had been full of the unexpected. When she was seventeen, she’d gone to the ER for a paper cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding and, within twenty-four hours, had started urgent chemotherapy for a leukemia diagnosis. At nineteen, she’d almost died from a virus most people don’t even know they’ve had. And at twenty-four, her previously cured disease that was supposed to have stayed that way came roaring back with a vengeance. It had lain dormant for a few years, just long enough to give her a false sense of control over her life again before pulling the rug out from under her.
Tonight, though? Finding this adorable bar, drinking the best cocktail she’d ever had, randomly sitting beside a man who’d struck up an argument about cheesecake, and filling in on another woman’s date ... It was all unexpected, too.
But in a good way. That never happened, and a thrill shot through her at the realization, a high she hadn’t known since before her diagnosis.
Be something other than a cancer patient for once.
She swallowed, offered her hand, and blurted out her middle name. “May. My name’s May.”
They were late to the baking class, which normally would have made Elliott antsy to the point of distraction. She knew all too well how it felt to be kept waiting. Sitting in the lobby for two hours for an appointment booked six months prior, staring at the phone and wishing for good biopsy results, living on edge while waiting for the chemotherapy side effects to rear their ugly, unpredictable heads.
It always sucked; it never got easier.
She couldn’t control any of it, but she could make sure she was never responsible for causing someone else to wait for her. She was punctual to a fault, if such a thing could be considered a negative.
But tonight, and for the first time ever, she didn’t regret her tardiness. Not even when the instructor at the front of the room shot them a pointed glare and informed them, in front of everyone, that they’d need to read the recipe themselves because she wasn’t going over everything again.
In fact, Elliott would have taken another lap around the block and settled for a candy bar from a convenience store if it meant she could keep talking to Jamie. The man was kind, funny, and the perfect amount of flirtatious.
“Quick, tell me everything about you,” she’d said as they stepped out of the bar and entered the cool May evening—arguably the best month to be outdoors in Nebraska. She hoped to keep him talking, mostly because she was genuinely interested, but also because she avoided sharing personal details about herself at all costs. Being her never-cancer alter ego tonight meant a large chunk of her life would be off-limits for conversation. She just hoped there was enough of her left to stay interesting.
“Wow, everything?” He puffed out his cheeks, stepping closer as a large group passed them on the sidewalk. “I’m Jamie, twenty-nine years old, certified arborist in this grand city of Omaha, where I was born and raised. Played baseball, loves dogs, hates cats, and has a hard time saying no to anything.”
“Arborist?” she asked. “Like a tree surgeon?”
“Sure, you can call me Dr. Jamie if you want to.” He winked at her then, which coming from some men would be creepy as hell. But he’d laughed right after, almost like he was embarrassed he’d done it, and landed himself firmly in the Charming category.
“Okay, Doc. Do you believe in horoscopes?”
“Nope.”
“Me either.” Yuka’d gone through a phase a couple of years ago where she’d chalked everything up to “the stars,” and Elliott had damn near taken a friendship sabbatical. “What’s your most useless talent?”
“Huh. That’s a good question.” His tongue pushed against his cheek. “I can drink or eat anything cold without getting a brain freeze. Chugging slushies was my eighth-grade party trick.”
“Wow, did that get you all the girls?”
“Not a one.”
She laughed, and the way he looked at her made her feel as if he thought making her smile was the best thing he’d ever done. Her stomach tightened at the same time her brain warned her to tread carefully.
“What’s yours?” he asked.
“I can fold a fitted sheet so well you can’t tell it apart from a flat one.”
His jaw dropped. “How?”
“Come on, Baseball Guy. You should know practice makes perfect.”
“While I’m impressed with you, I’m not sure I care enough about that to perfect it.”
“I don’t blame you—most people don’t.” He didn’t need to know the time she’d had on her hands over the years.
She learned they both loved to read, his favorite author was Andy Weir, and he had a yellow Lab. She told him about her parents’ German shepherd and how jealous her dad had been when Dodger suddenly switched allegiance and chose her as the family favorite. He still wasn’t over it, and she teased him every chance she got. They talked about running, which, when she felt up to it, was her favorite method of stress relief.
In a stroke of good luck, Jamie asked what she did for a living just as they arrived at their destination, and she’d gotten away with a vague reply about working on her degree in graphic design.
Any concerns he might ask more about her life disappeared after they arrived and received their public reprimand. Jamie didn’t seem fazed and slipped on the sole remaining apron—a pink number with an obnoxiously loud floral print—without batting an eye. He tied the strings behind his back as they walked to their assigned station, briskly rubbed his hands together, and took a deep breath.
“Okay. We’re already behind, but we can do this.” With a straight face and sudden intensity that seemed more appropriate for a contestant in the final round of The Great British Bake Off , he pointed to the open shelves beneath the counter. “Grab the sugar, bowls, and measuring cups while I read through the recipe. My sister taught me to always read the whole thing and measure all ingredients before you start. Be prepared, pay attention. No Rachael Ray shenanigans.”
Elliott knelt down to follow his request. “No Rachael Ray what, now?”
“You know. No estimating ingredients.” He trailed his finger along the page as he read, gripping his chin with the other hand. “She just pours stuff in without measuring, like she can eyeball a quarter tablespoon or half cup exactly. It’s a recipe for disaster, especially when baking. Precision is nonnegotiable.”
“Wow.” Elliott hugged the bowls to her chest and rocked back on her heels.
“What?”
“Recipe pun aside, you’re taking this super serious.”
He jerked his head toward her, glasses askew. “Baking is serious business.”
She tucked her lips between her teeth. God, he was cute.
He dropped his head forward with a sigh. “I should kill my sister for doing this to me.”
“She’s like this, too?”
“Worse.”
That was terrifying.
She gathered the rest of the things he’d asked for, lining up all the bowls, measuring cups, and spoons by size in descending order.
“Preheat the oven to three fifty,” he ordered. Then, as if he heard himself, sheepishly added, “Please.”
“What would you do if I told you that when I make ready-to-bake sugar cookies, I put them in while it’s still preheating?”
Jamie gasped.
“Thought you’d say that.”
He just stared at her. “Don’t they burn?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you still eat them?”
She shrugged. “It’s still a cookie.” She nudged him with her shoulder and grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll follow your lead tonight. What’s next?”
It took him a moment to recover; then he read the instructions for the custard mixture.
“Start with the egg yolks and sugar. Whisk constantly until thickened, and slowly add the cornstarch and milk. Keep whisking, about ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Did you just say whisk constantly for fifteen minutes ?” she cried.
The instructor, a severe woman with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, appeared at their table. “Do you want a lumpy soufflé?”
Jamie, whose back was to the woman, bugged out his eyes at Elliott and mouthed, No .
Elliott blinked, meeting the woman’s steely gaze. “Um. No, ma’am.”
Jamie covered his mouth with his fist, turning a laugh into a cough.
When the woman walked away, Elliott glared at him. “I don’t know why you’re laughing; you’ve got the same energy going on. Let’s take it down a notch.”
He nodded. “Right. Sorry.” Then after a few beats: “You called her ‘ma’am.’ Like she was your seventh-grade math teacher.”
“Well! I respect my elders.”
Jamie shuddered. “Don’t let her hear you call her that.”
Elliott huffed out a breath. “Can we move on? We were at the prolonged whisking.” She pulled one arm across her chest, twisting this way and that.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Stretching.”
He grinned at her, again.
The dimple popped, again.
“I don’t remember the last time I smiled this much.”
She smiled back at him, fighting to keep the emotion from her voice. “Me either.” The mixture of elation and sadness his words brought were way too much for the moment, but she couldn’t help the rush of hopelessness. If she ever laughed again after tonight, it would be so far into the future she didn’t even want to guess when.
Jamie grabbed the small saucepan and turned on the burner while she measured the ingredients. She whisked the yolks and sugar while he slowly poured in the milk.
He leaned in close and whispered, “Nice form.”
Wow, that did things to her insides. Things she had no business indulging tonight. “So, what’s next?”
“Let’s see. Now we beat the egg whites until you get stiff peaks.”
She stopped whisking and let a moment of silence pass. “Beat until stiff. Got it.”
His shoulders pitched forward as a snort-laugh burst from his chest. The room went silent, and every head turned in their direction. Elliott spun around to face the wall, grinding her molars together to keep from laughing.
“Sorry. Excuse us,” Jamie muttered before he turned to her and stepped close to her body, bringing along a clean scent of masculine bodywash. A flush had spread up his neck, but his eyes were bright with mirth. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“I think this was a great idea.”
The heat of his body surrounded her, but he said nothing for a long moment. Finally, she tipped her head up and met his gaze.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said in a low voice. Her stomach fluttered at the way his eyes tracked a path across every inch of her face, from her hairline to her lips. “I’m starting to think this was the best idea I ever had.”
Same.
His arm brushed hers, his skin warm and smooth. “You’re not whisking,” he whispered.
“Shit.” She moved her attention to the saucepan as she pushed him away. “Stop distracting me with ...” She trailed off.
He arched a brow. “With?”
She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, flapping her free hand in his direction without looking. “You know. Everything you’ve got going on there. The glasses, the hair, the dimple. It’s distracting.”
“The only thing distracting over here is you.”
This was bad. “And now, with the flirting. Save it for later. I want to eat a soufflé before I go back to my hotel.”
“You flirted firs— Wait. Hotel?” His entire torso faced her. “Do you not live here?”
She kept her eyes on the thickening sugar mixture. “Oh, um, no. Just visiting.”
Please leave it at that.
“I didn’t realize.” The disappointment in his tone was unmistakable. “Where are you from?”
“Lincoln.” She probably shouldn’t have even given him that much, but she was a terrible liar. Avoidance, redirection, and vague responses were no problem, but a direct question like that was hard to sidestep.
Lincoln and Omaha were barely an hour apart, so that perked him up a little. “Oh, cool. Are you here for work? Fun?” When she hesitated, he added, “Sorry. Too nosy? You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
She never hated cancer more than at times like these, when she had a glimpse of what her life could be without it: a date with a handsome man whenever she wanted, with butterflies in her stomach and stars in her eyes. “I’d rather not. I’m sorry. It’s just ... the reason I’m here isn’t pleasant, and you’re doing a wonderful job of distracting me from it.”
The quiet air around them turned somber, and she chanced a glance at him. He looked stricken, standing stock-still. “Is everything okay?”
“Hopefully.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it, as if unsure how to respond. She couldn’t blame him, and odds were good he wouldn’t know what to say if she’d told the truth, either. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” Suddenly antsy, she dipped her head to rub her cheek against her shoulder, just above the port implanted in her chest. Her arm was getting tired, and she switched sides. The thought of explaining her sore arm to the nurse tomorrow brought an unexpected smile, though. “Actually, yes.” He swayed toward her, waiting. “This. You can beat those eggs, make me laugh, and feed me a delicious soufflé to keep my mind off what happens tomorrow.”
After a few moments, the intense Jamie from before returned, and he nodded. “I can do that. Just wait. I’ll make the stiffest fucking egg whites you’ve ever seen.”