Chapter 11
LOUIS
I’d never been so nervous to cook for another man in my entire life.
I’d cooked for dates before. I’d cooked for twenty-person dinner parties, and I cooked for myself most every night.
In my twenties, I’d grown tired of takeout and fast food, so I’d learned to cook, and in the process I’d discovered I had a bit of a knack for it.
And there was just something so pleasurable in indulging in a delicious meal that I’d prepared.
I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t enjoy my food, even if I was just cooking for myself.
But this afternoon I found myself incredibly nervous in ways I hadn’t been for a long time, and not just about the cooking.
Something about Matthew discomfited me. I knew I was a lot, but I’d long ago stopped apologizing for that.
Or at least, I’d thought I’d stopped apologizing for it.
Matthew had pointed out my apologies twice over the last couple of days, so perhaps I did it more than I’d realized.
Or maybe it was just the effect he had on me.
I found myself wanting to impress him, even as I seemed to do anything but impress when he was around.
And for what? For a guy who was clearly not interested in me.
Who was still grieving his wife. Who had a life here while I had a life in the city.
I deserved someone who wanted me wholeheartedly, I reminded myself.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t be friendly with the guy, or that we couldn’t share a meal together to keep the loneliness at bay, but it was time to stop placing so much importance on his opinion of me. I was fucking fantastic, goddammit. Anyone who didn’t get that wasn’t worth the worry.
A knock sounded at the door, and I crossed over to answer, taking a breath and resettling myself as I went. But as I pulled the door open, every thought I’d had flew right out of my head.
Matthew in flannel was attractive as hell. He really knew how to work that whole lumberjack, mountain-man vibe. But Matthew in dark-wash jeans paired with a creamy cable-knit sweater that hugged his chest and shoulders in all the right ways could only be described as delicious.
“H-hi,” I stammered. “Come in.”
I thought I caught a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything as he crossed inside.
He had no coat for me to take since he’d just come from next door, but he offered up a bottle of wine, so I took that, setting it on the counter next to the prime rib that I’d just pulled out to rest.
“The prime rib just needs about ten more minutes to rest and then I can carve it up. Should I pour you a glass of wine?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
I stared at him a moment more, letting that gravelly bass voice of his wash over me, before turning to locate the wine glasses.
I managed to find a couple of mismatched glasses in the back of one cupboard, then rummaged through the drawers looking for a bottle opener.
I finally located a basic winged corkscrew—not as nice as my electric opener at home, but it would have to do—and made quick work of getting the bottle open and pouring a glass for each of us.
We took a sip as an awkward silence descended.
I’d never been good with those—with allowing long moments to stretch between myself and other people that weren’t filled with conversation.
I eyed Matthew contemplatively, debating what to say.
There was so much about this man that I was curious about, but I didn’t know where to begin without putting my foot in my mouth once again.
I wondered about his childhood, though it was hard to picture the bearded man in front of me as a small human.
Was he always so reserved, or was that something he’d developed after the death of his wife?
What was his family like? Did he have siblings?
And if he did, why wasn’t he spending the holiday with them?
Asking those questions, however, seemed like a risky proposition, destined to end up with me apologizing all over again.
So instead I asked, “Did you grow up around here?” That seemed less likely to break open some hidden trauma, yet might give some insight into his backstory.
“Allison and I grew up in the city. Moved here three years after we got married.”
Interesting. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a city boy.
“What brought you out here?”
“Allison was a high school English teacher for four years. She loved her students, but she decided the grind of teaching wasn’t for her. She talked me into moving here and opening a bookstore.”
“What were you doing for work at the time?”
“I was a corporate drone. Worked for a large insurance company.”
I goggled at him, glass of wine paused halfway to my lips. “Corporate? Like with a suit and tie? Did you carry a briefcase?”
“Dress was business casual. Khakis . . . polos . . . that sort of thing.”
Still, it was hard to imagine him in anything other than flannel and jeans. Though he was filling out his current sweater quite nicely. “Do you miss it?”
“Which one? Corporate life? Or living in the city?”
“Both.” I took another sip, then set down my glass and began carving the meat.
“I hated corporate life, and living away from the city took some getting used to.”
He’s a man of many words, I thought sarcastically.
“But you like it now?”
“Moving here made Ally happy. And that made me happy.”
What would that be like? To have someone so devoted to you that their happiness was interconnected with your own? And yet I’d long ago stopped waiting around for someone else to make me happy. My happiness was my own to make.
“Have you ever considered going back?”
He looked down at his glass as if the answer lay somewhere in the bottom of his wine. “No. My life is here.”
I finished cutting the prime rib, then pulled the green beans out of the oven where I’d put them to keep warm. I gave the mashed potatoes a stir, and then we plated our meals in the kitchen before taking them over to the small dining area near the window.
“The table looks nice. You didn’t have to go to any trouble.” On a whim I’d purchased a small red and green tablecloth and gold candles to dress up the space. I’d also bought a festive flower arrangement that fit perfectly with the other items I’d purchased. It made me smile.
“I’m glad you like it, but I purchased everything yesterday before I even had a notion of inviting you.”
“Oh.” A little crease formed between his brows, and I thought perhaps my blunt comment had been rude.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t have just said a simple thank you.
Before I could backtrack and amend my statement, he continued.
“Do you always go to this much trouble when you’re just eating by yourself? ”
“No, not always. But it’s a holiday, and I was feeling festive. Do I need to have dinner guests in order to decorate my table?”
“I don’t suppose you do. It’s just not something I’ve ever considered, I guess.”
“Once upon a time, I wished for a Prince Charming of my very own to come into my life and give it meaning. I dated throughout my twenties—had a few moderately serious relationships—but nothing ever panned out, and I realized I was living in this odd kind of limbo while I waited for the perfect guy. Then I’d be in my happily-ever-after era where my dreams would come true and my life would really begin.
We’d buy a condo. Get a car. Maybe a dog or a cat.
We could host dinner parties as a couple. Take exotic vacations.
“But as I eased into my thirties and there was still no Prince Charming in sight, I realized I’d been pinning all of my hopes and dreams on some guy I hadn’t even met.
I started doing all the things I’d wanted to do.
I took a trip to Europe by myself. I got a cat, though she passed about three years ago.
I learned to cook, and I hosted dinner parties on my own.
I have a great condo and a car I love. So when I looked around this apartment and it didn’t feel like Christmas, I bought the supplies and decorated.
It made me happy to do it. I didn’t need any other reason than that. ”
Matthew took a bite of his prime rib, chewing but not responding. I thought maybe I’d put my foot in my mouth again, but then he said, “I’m glad you do those things for yourself. I think it’s . . . nice.”
“Thank you. You know, you could do them for yourself too.”
“I don’t need a tablecloth when I eat.”
“It’s not about needing something. It’s about doing it simply because it makes you happy.” He frowned at his mashed potatoes, and thinking I’d probably pushed him enough, I changed the subject. “So, tell me about the bookstore.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Actually, I think I want to go back a step further. Why did you choose this town? Did you have a connection here?”
“There’s a little bed and breakfast about three miles outside of town.
I booked a weekend there for our one-year wedding anniversary.
We spent a day in town and she fell in love.
So much so that she insisted we come back the following year.
On that visit, she noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign in the window of the bookshop.
She chatted up the owners who were looking to retire and head somewhere south where the winters are milder.
“It turned out the place had been on the market for months without any offers. By that point, she was already looking into getting out of teaching, so she talked them into giving us a year to save up and come back. It was a ridiculous proposition, but when Ally got her mind set on something, she was impossible to say no to. Her excitement was contagious.”
It was the most animated I’d seen him, the most words he’d spoken to me at one time. He was so damn beautiful lit up like that. Ally had been damn lucky to have him.
“Well, you should be proud of it. It’s an adorable little shop.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything else in response. We continued to eat, and when the silence stretched past the point of being comfortable, I tried engaging him in conversation again.
“So when you’re not running the bookshop, what do you do for fun?”
He looked up with an expression of confusion as if I’d asked him what the color purple smelled like, so I continued. “You can’t spend all your time at the shop. What do you do when you’re not working?”
I watched in fascination as a little bit of color crept up past his beard line and into his cheeks. “I’m a narrator. I narrate audiobooks.”
My eyes widened in fascination and absolute delight, and I leaned forward, food forgotten in my haste to learn more. “Really? What kind of books?”
“Romance.” He mumbled so quickly, I almost didn’t catch what he said. “And before you ask a bunch of questions—”
“How do you know I was gonna ask a question?”
“Because you always ask questions.”
“Someone has to keep the conversation going,” I snarked.
He glared at me, but went on. “As I was about to tell you, I got into it as a surprise for Ally’s birthday. She sent my amateur recording off as a demo, and I got a contract.”
“That’s amazing! Would I be familiar with any of the books?”
“I think I’d rather keep that information to myself. I’d also rather you not say anything to anyone. No one around here knows that I do it.” I watched in dismay as his eyes shuttered. He was closing down on me.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I rushed to reassure him. “It’s not like I really know anyone around here anyway.”
He glared at me a little longer, as if he could will me into compliance with just a look.
“I promise I won’t say anything. Cross my heart.” I made an X over my left pec as though I was back in grade school.
As silly as it was, it must have convinced him, because he relaxed, scooping up a forkful of mashed potatoes. Still, I couldn’t resist a little ribbing. “I don’t promise that I won’t try to find one of your books, though.”
“I use a different name when I narrate, so good luck finding one.”
“Never underestimate a gay man who’s on a mission to dig up information about someone.”
He shook his head, but apparently wasn’t too concerned since he didn’t comment further.
We finished our meal and took our plates back into the kitchen.
Matthew insisted on helping with the cleanup, so we packaged up the leftovers and loaded the dishwasher, standing side by side at the sink, scrubbing the pans I had used.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Matthew as a narrator.
He had the perfect voice for it, but it was hard to picture him reading a romance novel.
He was so gruff and took everything so seriously.
How would he read a romcom? Or lord help me, a sex scene?
Jesus, his voice reading a sex scene would be worth the price of purchase. I was pretty sure I’d combust.
“So, are you working on any books right now?”
He let out a weary sigh. “You’re not going to drop this topic, are you?”
“I find it fascinating.”
He let out another sigh—I’d never met anyone who sighed as much as he did, except for maybe Jonathan—and turned to lean on the counter opposite where I was standing, wiping his hands as he did so.
“I’m actually working on something right now.”