17. Winnifred
C rew: Do you want to come over?
I’d spent the last week doing my very best to tap down any kind of anxious energy I was carrying around from leaving Crew in that hospital and not hearing anything beyond that.
I went as far as finding his sister in laws social media, the one that wore the fake wig and trench coat, and sending her a private message on Instagram. But considering she had a ridiculous amount of followers, my DM got lost at sea and was waiting to be sent back still. If I was thinking correctly at all when I left Crew that afternoon then I could’ve at least considered staying long enough for me to catch his mom and ask her to send me any updates. Instead I got spooked and left, sprinted right out of those doors and rushed home to…marinate? Ew, no. But to soak in my thoughts, yes. I was worried about Crew. Enough for him to basically take up squatting rights in my brain and sticking around with his family at the hospital, pretending we were together? It was all too much.
My mind all weeks kept rushing back, wondering how much Crew remembered. How much did he actually mean? I’m going to keep her. Winnie girl. I’m broken.
I was mid-dicing a strawberry, the fifteenth one in a row for a tartlet when my phone vibrated with his text. Did I want to come over? Yes. No. I…don’t know. I knew he meant it for practice, because why else would I come over? But still…in the back of my head, my mind flickered an image of coming over for more. An image of being with Crew on his couch with his fancy cheese and cracker board watching the glow of his tv illuminate that strong jaw, the chiseled nose of his that reminded me of a Greek potter. Checking him out before, merely taking in the scientific fact that this man was edible, hadn’t felt so alien before now. But I felt like the playing field had been leveled-no, I felt like someone paved a new parking lot for us to park in but there are no painted lines so we had to just assume what our new version of ‘in the lines’ were.
Friends with Crew felt far more overwhelming than I imagined and avoiding him wasn’t an option. Enemy territory felt safe and controlled, pushing his buttons, accusing him, finding that one nerve that drove him wild and proceeding to do a metaphorical Irish dance on it was the easiest territory for me. But this in between, this transition felt just…sticky. And I couldn’t have anything sticking to me right now. I needed to flour my surroundings and keep pushing, folding, and pressing until I got my check and flying straight home. Back to Willow Creek, where the tomatoes are fried and green and everyone laughs fill the town. Sticking wasn’t going to work.
This was a business transaction. We could be friendly whilst being professionals, or well, I could be. Crew was Crew. But considering he took an entire week to reach back out told me more than likely he remembered his blatant flirting and regretted it.
Me: I am mid strawberry, give me an hour and I’ll be there.
It was actually more like an hour and a half when I stepped through to Crew’s kitchen, two tartlets and a bottle of ibuprofen in hand. It was meant to be a joke but, also, I saw him wince the second he opened the door and now I was kind of glad I packed them. He leveled me with a stare but then put the medicine in a drawer so I took it to mean he would be using them later.
Crew took a bite of the tartlet I packed in a dollar store container and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, a low groan came out when he said, “You seriously made this?” And I felt like my knees were about to go weak.
Having people try my food, moan over my food, cry about how incredible it is- that’s nothing new. I’ve had that since before Marshall and I’ll have it long after, when I’m old and gray and my shaky fingers are shoving eclairs down the people of Willow Creek’s throats. But having Crew groan over it, his throat rumbling low and slow was pure torture.
The sweet tang of strawberries filled the kitchen as I diced them up for the next tartlet, this one we decided to add more lemon juice to, the knife slicing cleanly through the ripe fruit.
“Did I tell you that this tartlet helped me win the dessert champion of the 2014 Willow Creek bake off?” I flashed a grin over my shoulder, already feeling the familiar flutter of excitement that came with our exchanges. Feeling the need to find his buttons and push them. Even prior to us finding this new rhythm, flirting with Crew had almost always been second nature—like breathing.
He glanced at me from the corner of the room, where he was now rummaging through a cabinet. A slow smile creeping over that handsome face. “Oh yeah? That so, Winnie?”
“Mhmm, it was irresistible. I practically had cowboys lining up at my door. I mean, who could resist a girl with perfect strawberry-dicing form?”
He smirked, walking a little closer, and reaching around me to grab a knife I knew he didn’t need right now. I could see the challenge light up in his hazel eyes. But instead of the usual sharp retort, something shifted. He wasn’t going to make fun of me, or my poisoning, or brush me off. No, his gaze held heat in it. And whatever he was bringing next, I wasn’t sure I’d ever been prepared. He leaned in, voice dropping just enough to make my pulse skip a beat, as his whisper brushed against my ear.
“It’s got nothing to do with strawberries.”
My mouth gaped. The knife I was using the slice slipped. “Ouch!” I dropped the strawberry and the knife, grabbed my finger, hissing. “Ow, ow, ow, owwieee.”
Blood rapidly poured from the tip of my pointer finger where the knife had slipped, fully due to my unexpecting Crew to actually flirt back with me.
In an instant, Crew was fully at my side, his large hands wrapping gently around mine to inspect the damage. “Ouchie,” I muttered again, partially because I liked the way he looked when he was concerned.
“Should’ve warned you, the knives are insanely sharp. I’ll take care of you, c’mere.” His voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the seriousness behind it as he led me toward the couch. My heart raced as he guided me to sit down, his touch gentle yet firm, sending warmth through me despite the sting in my finger.
“Stay right here,” Crew patted my not-injured hand like I was a dog being told to wait for it’s treat.
He bounced up from the couch and down to the hall, the sound of shuffling followed until he popped back to the living room, a white box with a red cross on it in his hand.
“Well, look at you, Dr. Wells,” I teased, though my voice wavered a little. “A whole first aid kit? I pictured you as more of a ‘superglue it shut and walk it off’ kind of guy.”
A small chuckle escaped his chest as he pulled out the fully stocked kit. Setting bandages and cleaning wipes next to my lap. “Yeah, well. My mom got me this for Christmas a few years back after I, uh, fell off the roof hanging Christmas lights. Didn’t go to the doctor. Got a nasty infection and—well, you don’t wanna know the rest.”
I snorted, despite myself. “That sounds exactly like you.”
He shrugged in a confirmation before opening a packet with his teeth, and holding up an alcohol wipe, his eyes meeting mine. There was an apology in his eyes, like he was the one who caused this whole thing in the first place. “This might sting a little.”
“Then don’t do it.”
Crew smirked, leaning closer, his gaze locking with mine in that slow, deliberate way that made it hard to breathe. My whole face felt so hot when he got this close, and my pale skin always did a horrible job of showing it.
“You know, if you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask, Winnie girl.” He looked up at me and this time there was no mistaking the wink he sent my way. It was like I got a brief glimpse of the same Crew I saw that very first time. Flirty and oh so tempting.
My cheeks burned, the heat in my cheeks rushing down my neck. “Shut up and fix me, doc.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the way I squirmed under his attention. “Alright, I have to do this. Just keep talking, it’ll distract you.”
As he gently wiped my cut, the sting hit harder than I expected. Like it was rushing straight to every nerve ending in my hand. “Oww,” I hissed, trying to focus on anything other than the pain—or the way his fingers brushed against mine. “I miss my hometown,” I blurted.
His hand paused, and his gaze softened. “Yeah? What’s it like?”
I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Cozy. Nosey. Everyone knows everyone. Life moves slower there.” I smiled a little, remembering the rises and falling of the land. “The farm is what I miss the most. Acres and acres of land. Sometimes, it’s so quiet it feels like it’s just you and the birds. Well, and the mosquitos, but you learn to live with them.”
Crew hummed. “Sounds amazing.” He wasn’t looking at my hand anymore, just me. The intensity in his gaze made my breath catch.
“Hey, focus on the injury.”
“Right,” he went back to adjusting the bandage around my finger.
“It is, though. Amazing. I’m excited to visit for Thanksgiving. My nana makes the best mac and cheese—Southern comfort stuff. Ham, dressing… the works.”
Crew was focused again, now pulling out an extra band-aid. “You’re gonna have to bring me a plate. I’m serious.”
My heart did a little flip as I smiled at him. If we win the competition, I could. But if we won, that meant this whole game we were playing—this fun, flirty thing—would have to stop, wouldn’t it? Or would we keep… whatever this was, going? Friends?
“All set.” Crew’s voice brought me back, his hand lightly patting my knee.
I wiggled my fingers, testing the band-aid’s strength. “I hate that you have such good knives.”
“They came with band-aids when I ordered them,” he said, flashing a half-smile. “Figured this kind of thing happens a lot.”
I laughed, but it was weaker than usual. There was something brewing between us, something that wasn’t part of the usual banter. It had me off balance, and I didn’t like it one bit. Or maybe I liked it a lot. I wasn’t sure.
Either way, my voice wobbled when I responded to his gentle caress on my hand. His fingers grazing my palm even though there was nothing left to be fixed. “Careful, Crew,” I said, rising from the couch as casually as I could, “I might start thinking you actually like me.”
He scoffed, his back to me as we both returned to the counter. “Yeah, don’t hold your breath.”
“I’m serious. I think we might be… becoming friends.”
“We are not. We’ve hated each other too long to go soft now.”
I grinned, leaning against the counter, watching him as he started chopping again. As if it hadn’t even happened. “Oh, we are. Friends. Soon we’ll have matching jackets. Or Hawaiian shirts.”
He hesitated, and I caught the briefest flicker of a smile. “I could be persuaded on Hawaiian shirts.”
“Knew it.” I crossed my arms, leaning closer as he worked, the rhythm of his chopping oddly hypnotic. Every now and then, he’d hand me a spoon, letting me taste whatever he was working on, and with every bite, I swooned a little more.
Was it possible to get a crush on someone just by tasting their food? Too late. It was already happening.