Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FINLEY
I can’t believe Thomas is thinking about leaving Elk Lake. This town has been a dream come true for me. A dream that became sweeter when I met him. And now he wants to leave? I’m not pleased.
Also, I’m surprised Thomas wants to eat with me again. It’s not that I don’t want to go. I do. I just don’t want to get more attached to him only to have him break my heart when he goes back to New York.
“Let’s go to my studio and order in,” I tell him. “They just cut the opening between my place and the shop next door. I have a lot of work to do to get it ready for use.”
“Are you trying to get me to help you?” he asks suspiciously.
I could get addicted to that smile of his. Full lips and straight white teeth are near the top of my must-have list when it comes to a man. Other things include nice feet, properly clipped nails, and hair. I like a man with hair.
“You don’t have to help,” I tell him. “You could just sit there and eat while I do all the work.” I raise one eyebrow and narrow my gaze to send a subliminal message: You’d better not sit and watch me work without offering to help.
I know he receives the message loud and clear when he laughs, “Nice guilt trip. You’re going to be a great mother someday.”
The sharp pain that stabs me to the left of my belly button makes me think I might have just spontaneously ovulated.
I’m not sure I’d make a great mom, but I’m convinced Thomas would make a great dad.
He’s kind, funny, tall, gorgeous … Not that you have to be tall and gorgeous to be a good dad, but it certainly helps your spouse want to procreate with you.
Especially, if that spouse is me. Talk about getting ahead of myself …
I force my brain not to start thinking about making babies with Thomas.
Heck, we haven’t even been on our first date yet.
I don’t count fake dates, or friendly get-togethers.
Our first date will be official when/if Thomas asks me out and then kisses me at my doorstep when he brings me home. I’m old fashioned that way.
Thomas reaches out and snaps his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. “You in there, Finley?”
Just thinking about making babies with you. “I was just distracted by the beautiful sunset,” I lie. “But yes, I’m here. Did you say something?”
“I said I’d be happy to help you out tonight. Are we painting? Ripping up carpet? What do you have in mind?”
“Fluffing feathers,” I tell him.
The look he gives me is comical. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I just got a big box of ostrich feathers in and they arrived pretty smooshed,” I explain. “They need to be fluffed before they can be used.”
“How do you use ostrich feathers?” he asks, sounding totally baffled.
“I use the pink and baby blue for infant shots.” Wiggling all ten of my fingers, I explain, “I fan them on the ground and then place the baby on top of them. People love that.”
“Huh.” He’s clearly having a hard time envisioning this, so I make a mental note to show him some pictures.
“They also come in handy for the boudoir shots.” I shrug my eyebrows at him suggestively. “Maybe you’d like a naughty maid photo for your calendar.” Thomas audibly chokes when he hears that. I reach over and pound on his back.
“I’m not sure I can see myself in a little maid outfit,” he says.
Giggling at the thought, I tell him, “We’d make you more of a manservant. You know, shirtless, carrying drinks on a silver tray.”
“Where do the feathers come in?”
“I could make you a nice feather duster with them.”
He looks alarmed. “I think I’ll stick with the more basic shots.”
I check the clock on the dashboard of my vintage dream ride and it’s already six. “We’d better head back then. If I order supper now, we should be able to get some good work done.”
“What should we get?” he asks before adding, “As you know, I’ve had the diner food twice but haven’t tried anything else yet.”
“It’s Wednesday,” I tell him.
“What does that have to do with dinner?” He slowly backs out of his parking space and doesn’t stop until he hits the guardrail behind him.
“Don’t ding my ride before I buy her from you,” I scold.
“Sorry about that.” Putting the car into drive, he says, “I’m used to having a backup camera in cars that I rent..”
“When do your lessons start?” I ask him.
“I don’t know. Now that I’m moving to nights, I might have to see if the instructor can fit me in for private lessons.” He glances at me briefly before asking, “What does Wednesday have to do with what you eat for dinner.”
“Wednesday is pasta night,” I tell him. “So I think we should order Italian.”
Thomas pulls back onto the road slowly. “Sounds good to me. What’s your favorite pasta dish?”
I really don’t want to tell him, but if we’re going to be eating together, he’s going to find out. I inhale deeply hoping for a shot of courage. “I like angel hair pasta with butter.”
“What kind of sauce?”
“Butter,” I repeat.
“Butter as the sauce? You don’t put any marinara on it? Or white wine and garlic? Alfredo?”
“Butter,” I tell him for the third time.
“Cheese?” he asks.
“Plain,” I tell him.
Thomas obviously thinks this is the most boring order in the world. “Do you like tomato sauce?”
“I like it on pizza.”
“And no cheese?” Yeah, he’s not impressed by my culinary prowess.
“I like extra cheese on pizza,” I tell him. “And before you say I eat like a kid, I don’t. I just really love buttery noodles.” For some reason, I feel the need to add, “Butter is one of my food groups.”
Thomas turns left on to Main Street. We’re only five blocks from my shop now. “Butter falls into the dairy food group,” he tells me.
I shake my head. “Butter is a separate group for me.”
Thomas slows down about a block before he reaches the next stop sign. “How many groups do you have?”
“Twelve,” I tell him.
“Finley, there are only five food groups.” He itemizes them: “Dairy, fruit, vegetables, grains, and protein. How do you get twelve out of that?”
While I want him to get to know me, I really wish we’d had more time together before I had to share this with him. Lifting one finger I tell him, “Butter, fruit, vegetables, brownies, meat, cheese, milk, pizza, Chinese food, bread, and chocolate.”
Thomas has been sitting at the stop sign for long enough that someone behind us honks. Lifting his foot off the brake, he gradually accelerates before pulling over to the side of the road and parking in front of Happy Snaps. Then he repeats, “There are only five food groups.”
“That’s like saying there are only seven continents,” I tell him.
Thomas rams the gear shift into park. “There are only seven continents.”
Shaking my head, I ask, “What about all the islands out there?”
“They’re islands, not continents.”
“But don’t you think they feel bad not being included as continents?”
Thomas turns and stares at me with his mouth hanging open. “Islands aren’t sentient. They don’t have feelings. Plus, if you included all the islands as continents there would be thousands of them. You can’t have thousands of continents.”
He’s really stressing over this, so I throw him a bone and lie. “I was joking about the continents.”
“And the food groups?”
“Not joking about those. I feel like food groups should be individualized to the person. I have twelve food groups.”
“That’s not how it goes,” he says.
“You can have five food groups if you want. That’s totally your prerogative.”
“What about other grains?” he wants to know. “Like oatmeal or rice?”
“They fall under bread,” I tell him.
“Why not just lump them all together and call them grains then?” Poor Thomas, he’s taking this pretty hard.
“I eat more bread than I do oatmeal or rice, so I like to name that category after it. It’s only fair.”
“Fair to whom?” His face turns bright red.
“To bread,” I tell him. Then I suggest, “Why don’t we go in. I didn’t order our food while we were out so it’s going to take longer now.”
Thomas gets out of the car and hurries around to my side. I open my own door, then I take his hand and let him help me out. “You are confounding,” he tells me.
“I’m my own person,” I assure him. “I like things the way I like them.”
Thomas stops walking and turns to look at me. Then he asks, “How do you like your men?”