Chapter 18 Eliza
Eliza
For once, the morning was mine.
I woke up without an alarm, the gray winter light easing through the curtains instead of demanding my attention.
My grandma had volunteered to cover the Coffee Cabin—insisted, actually—waving me off with a smile that said she knew more than she was letting on and reminding me, twice, not to rush through my day.
So, I didn’t.
I lingered over coffee at my kitchen counter, watched steam curl into the air, and listened to Remy and Linguini thump around the apartment like they were late for something important.
The quiet felt strange, indulgent. Usually, my mornings were measured in minutes and muscle memory. Today, time stretched.
I cleaned without needing to, folded laundry, and reorganized a drawer just to keep my hands busy.
Every so often, my thoughts drifted back to Nate’s easy smile, the warmth of his kitchen, the way he looked at me like I was something that could last instead of something temporary.
It felt good—dangerously good—to be seen that way, to be held in that kind of steady regard.
And yet, underneath it all, a familiar worry lingered.
Wanting to be worthy of that kind of care wasn’t the same as believing I was.
Part of me kept waiting for the moment he’d see what Graham always had—that I was complicated, difficult, not quite enough.
I pressed my hands flat against the counter, breathing through the feeling, telling myself that being nervous didn’t mean being wrong.
By late morning, I showered and changed, choosing clothes with more thought than I wanted to admit. Comfortable, but intentional. Familiar, but soft. The kind of outfit you wear when you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not nervous.
I checked my phone—no new messages—but I didn’t need one. The plan was set. Spaghetti. Cooking together. Nothing complicated.
And yet…
As I pulled my coat on and grabbed my keys, my heart kicked up a notch, like it recognized the moment before I did. This wasn’t just a way to pass the day. It felt like stepping into a room where something important was waiting.
I locked the door behind me and headed for the car, the cold air sharpening my breath.
It’s just dinner, I told myself.
But my pulse didn’t believe me.
I stopped at the mailbox on the way to my car. It coughed up a coupon flyer, a library slip, and—of course—a heavy cream envelope with my name printed in calligraphy on the front.
I didn’t open it until I reached my car.
Graham Barton requests the honor… Gold embossing. Cocktail attire. Grand opening tomorrow night. Local leaders. Industry friends. Please come worship at the altar of Me.
“Eat a baguette,” I muttered, which sounded tougher in my head.
Nate’s place sat a few blocks off Sycamore Street: dignified blue paint, old maple, front steps with the right kind of creak—a pair of tiny rainbow boots waited by the door beside a wicker basket stuffed with dog toys.
A crayon drawing had been taped at kid-height: two stick figures, one chocolate-brown blob labeled Lois, a house with too many windows, and a sun in sunglasses. Caption: Our Home.
The door swung open on soap-and-coffee warm air.
“Hey,” he said, soft like we were sharing a secret. Gray tee. Faded jeans. Simple white apron. Hair pushed back with his palm. The look on his face did dangerous things to my heart, along with other places.
As I hesitated, the scent of coffee from the kitchen wafted through the air, and Lois ambled over to greet me with a soft thump of her tail. I knelt to scratch behind her ears, feeling my nerves settle a little. There was warmth here that felt effortless, woven into the creaks of the floorboards.
“Hey,” I said, stepping further in, the envelope burning a hole in my bag.
His kitchen was every kind of cozy: butcher-block counters, a chalkboard wall of grocery lists and Tilly art, a ceramic canister labeled Cookie Emergency.
On the island, ingredients stood like a perfectionist had lined them up.
Cans of tomatoes, dried basil in a mason jar, a block of parmesan, a loaf of bread wrapped in paper, and the good olive oil.
A big pot was already placed on the back burner; a pan was waiting on the front.
He handed me a mug—glitter paint proclaiming Miss Coffee Elf—and pretended not to watch me smile at it. “House rules,” he said. “We taste as we go and lie about nothing.”
“So, no gaslighting the marinara,” I said.
“Exactly.” His mouth tipped. “And if you grade my garlic bread, please do it on a generous curve.”
We found an easy rhythm—me at the board, him at the stove.
I minced garlic while he coaxed the onions glossy and sweet; he tipped the pan like he was asking permission, and I slid the garlic in to bloom.
The whole place shifted at once—into comfort, into memory, into the kind of warmth that makes you linger.
“You’re humming,” he said, like he’d stumbled onto something fragile.
“I am not.”
“You are,” he said gently.
I froze for half a second, then kept working. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m not trying to,” he said. “I um, I guess I like it when you sound happy.”
My chest did that stupid, aching thing. He crushed the tomatoes with his hands, calm and sure, while I rolled meatballs—small and careful, the way I always was, like precision might keep everything from falling apart.
He tore basil and told me about Tilly’s dance class, about how his grandpa clapped off-beat and earned a deeply offended look from a four-year-old in a pink tutu.
I laughed, then caught myself, surprised by how easily it came.
We bumped hips at the sink. I should’ve moved. I didn’t. Our fingers brushed, and this time the contact lingered—warm and sweet. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and herbs, and something softer underneath, I felt like I belonged here with him.
For a moment, I let myself pretend this was normal. That cooking with him didn’t feel like stepping into a life I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want. That I wasn’t already bracing for the moment it might disappear.
He glanced at me then—not rushed, not distracted—and the care in his eyes made my throat tighten.
I kept my focus on the counter, breathing through it, because feeling this felt risky. And because part of me already knew this wasn’t just dinner. It was hope, sneaking in when I wasn’t looking.
We moved around each other without thinking about it—him reaching past me for the salt, me sliding the cutting board out of the way. He whipped up a vinaigrette, frowned thoughtfully, then held the spoon out to me for a taste.
“Well?” he asked.
I leaned in, tasted, and nodded. “It’s good.”
“Just good? That’s all I get?” His mouth curved, hopeful.
“It’s very good,” I said. “But I bet you’re still going to adjust it,” I added.
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He hesitated, just long enough to tell the truth without meaning to. “Because I like knowing I tried my best to make it perfect.”
The words settled between us, gentle and heavy all at once.
I swallowed. “You don’t have to be so careful with everything.”
His eyes met mine, steady and warm. “I know,” he said softly. “Just the things I don’t want to mess up.”
The oven hummed, the kitchen warm and golden, the kind of cozy that sneaks up on you. He brushed a piece of parsley from my sleeve with an absentminded tenderness that made my pulse stutter. Not a big gesture. Just care, offered without asking anything in return.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, noticing my hesitation even when I hadn’t said a word.
I nodded too fast, then slowed myself. “Yeah. I am. I just—” I shrugged, searching for the right shape of the truth. “I forget sometimes that things can feel easy.”
His eyes softened, like he understood exactly what that cost me to admit. “Easy doesn’t mean careless,” he said. “It means you’re safe enough to let go.”
That almost undid me.
I turned back to the counter, busying myself with the salad, when my gaze snagged on my bag slung over the chair. The stiff edge of the envelope peeked out, all sharp corners and bad timing. I’d been pretending it wasn’t there. Pretending it wasn’t heavy.
He followed my line of sight.
He glanced toward my bag on the chair. Obviously, he’d caught me eyeballing it like it held a nuclear weapon instead of an invitation to an evening of dread. “Everything okay?”
I wiped my hands, pulled the envelope free, and set it on the counter like evidence. “Graham’s grand opening,” I said. “He invited me with a pretentious invitation.”
“He gave me one too,” I said. “At the diner.” His jaw tightened for a second. “Do you want to go?”
“Want to?” I snorted. “No. But I’m also kind of curious.”
“Curious,” he echoed.
“I mean… if he’s really as pompous as advertised, there’s probably gold-plated toilet seats, and a menu that says, ‘Trust the chef.’ I feel like I deserve to see that.”
His mouth twitched. “You just want to be nosy.”
“Absolutely. And maybe prove I’m not hiding.”
He shook his head, amused, his eyes soft with understanding. “Okay. But if we’re going to snoop, you’re not doing it alone.”
I met his eyes. “Are you suggesting we go together?”
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “Go with me.”
The yes came quicker than my caution could protest. “Okay,” I said, then added, because honesty had apparently become a house rule too, “If it gets weird, we bail and go to my place for grilled cheese.”
“Deal.” The tension in his shoulders eased. “We’ll be extremely polite for thirty minutes and then commit carb crimes.”
“Excellent plan.” I swallowed, heat rising to my cheeks for no good reason. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making it feel safe. Like I’ll be okay if I go.”
“You’ll be okay,” he said in a low growl. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He checked the pasta, stirred the sauce, ladled a little into a shallow dish, and slid it toward me with the kind of focus that makes people confess things.
I tore off a piece of bread and tasted. He watched my face like he was waiting for a series of medical reports or something. I smiled as I chewed.
I put the bread down carefully. “That,” I said, “tastes delicious. Perfection.”
He didn’t move for a breath. Then he reached across the island and brushed his thumb over the corner of my mouth.
“You’re wearing it,” he murmured.
“Kind of you to point that out,” I whispered, but I didn’t step back.
The kitchen hummed with the tension between us. The pot bubbled. I felt the yes building in my chest and didn’t try to smother it. If we wanted to kiss me, I was going to let him. Heck, I might just make the first move; that’s how right this felt.
“I’m trying to be careful,” he whispered. “With you.”
“Me too,” I said. “With you. I don’t want to be misleading. This is new between us, and I know I’ve been—”
“New doesn’t have to mean scary,” he said, eyes steady. “It can mean good.”
I didn’t plan it. I leaned in. He met me halfway.
The kiss was soft for a heartbeat—tentative and sweet, careful the way you hold something delicate in your palm.
Then his hand slid to the hinge of my jaw, and I forgot how to keep things soft.
I rose onto my toes; he stepped closer, crowding me gently against the edge of the island.
He tasted like tomato and basil, and the stubborn possibility that maybe I could trust this.
When I opened to him, he answered—slow, sure, not pushy—just enough to make my pulse go off the rails, and my fingers curl in his shirt.
A quiet sound slipped out of me. He swallowed it like a promise and deepened the kiss, coaxing rather than taking, one careful degree at a time. Heat curled through me, hungry and terrifying and so, so right.
He was the one who eased back, foreheads touching, breaths tangling. “I’m trying to be good,” he said, a little wrecked, a little amused with himself.
“You are,” I said, equally wrecked. “And I wanted that. So no apologizing.”
His mouth curved, thumb stroking once along my cheekbone like he was memorizing the map. “Duly noted.”
“Also,” I added, because self-preservation occasionally visits me, “we should probably not make out while the sauce is unsupervised.”
He huffed a laugh and stepped back an inch, hands warm at my waist for one last second before he let go. “Saving our dinner,” he said as he stirred the sauce. “One respectable simmer at a time.”
“Exactly,” I whispered.
“I like you here,” he said, as if he'd sensed my thoughts. “In my house. In my kitchen. It feels like you’re meant to be here.”
“Thank you,” I said, and felt the truth of it click into place.
Nate wiped his hands on a towel; I smoothed my sweater and tried not to look like my mouth still tingled from his kiss.
“You ready?” he asked, softer than before.
“For spaghetti?” I asked. “Absolutely.”
“For…” He gestured between us, helpless and hopeful.
“I’m ready for slow,” I said. “And for small. And for this.”
Something in him eased—some tightness I hadn’t realized he held. He nodded, eyes bright. “This,” he echoed, and the word felt like a promise we were allowed to keep.