Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Lark woke to the scent of something baked and browned, her stomach rumbling. Her bladder also needed to be emptied, badly, and she stumbled across the hall to take care of that first.
When she emerged from the restroom, she felt more human, but one glance down the hall reminded her that Cash-money-honey was making dinner for her that night. She ducked back into the bathroom and practically slammed the door.
She took in her reflection, noting her Medusa-like hair and how she had creases from her blanket in her cheek. “My word,” she whispered to her reflection.
After tossing a washcloth into the sink, she turned on the hot water and pulled open the drawer to find her toothbrush. She didn’t find it there, cursed under her breath that she hadn’t unpacked for the week yet, and darted back across the hall to retrieve her toiletry bag.
Ten minutes later, she’d braided her hair to tame it, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and currently stood in front of the mirror swiping on just a touch of black mascara to give more definition to her eyes.
She swiped on a layer of vanilla lip gloss and pressed her lips together before blowing out her breath. “It’s enough, Lark,” she told herself. She didn’t make herself up for anyone, and she didn’t want Cash to think she’d gone out of her way for dinner tonight.
With the mascara tucked into the drawer with the rest of her makeup, she left the bathroom and headed toward the kitchen. Cash hummed, the tune reaching her ears before she left the hallway.
Lark paused, leaning one shoulder and one hip into the wall and ducking her head. She loved coming home to Wyoming, to these woods, to this house. Everything moved slower here. She didn’t have so many things pressing on her, or pulling her in fifteen different directions.
She loved how dark the sky got here, and how silence blanketed everything in the most peaceful of ways.
But here was Cash, breaking it with the soft hum of his voice, and while Lark couldn’t quite place the song, it didn’t matter. This became her new definition of soft, slow, and peaceful. A new place where she could be herself, even with messy hair and an unwashed face and wrinkled clothes.
A place that felt like home.
“All right,” Cash said from the kitchen, a sigh following it. “That’s the salad, the pot pie has ten more minutes…the table.”
Lark smiled to herself, and she took a couple more steps to the end of the hallway, staying out of sight unless Cash looked directly at her.
She watched him take a pair of plates out of the cabinet beside the fridge and take them over to the table.
He set one at the head and one kitty-corner right next to it, then bent over something there for a few extra seconds.
Then he turned back to the kitchen and walked in a perfectly fluid way to get utensils and glasses. He set the table perfectly, and Lark sure liked watching him pay attention to the details. She wanted it to be because he was nervous about this dinner—this date—with her.
Her own anxiety fluttered through her, making her stomach swoop and her legs buckle slightly. To strengthen herself, she took a step out into the kitchen and clapped her hands together just once.
“It smells great out here,” she said as Cash twisted and looked in her direction.
She found him terribly handsome and oh-so-cute as he straightened and wiped his hands down the front of his jeans.
She suddenly wanted everything to be perfect with the food, with the two of them, with the whole world, if only so Cash could feel good about his efforts.
“It’s almost ready,” he said, taking a few steps toward her. “Come sit down, and we can start with the salad course.” He extended his hand toward her as he drew closer, and Lark’s skin sparked with anticipation of touching his again.
She slid her hand into his, pressing her palm against his and squeezing. He smiled at her and reached up with his free hand to touch the end of her braid. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I couldn’t braid it myself until I left for college.” She emitted a light laugh and shook her head. “Ridiculous, I know, but my momma was so good at braiding. She used to do hearts for Valentine’s Day and weave ribbons through the plaits for the Fourth of July.”
“Mm, I’d like to see that,” he murmured.
He led her over to the table and gave her the seat at the head by pulling out her chair and waiting for her to sit.
“I’ll get the salad and toppings. I may have gone a couple of steps past what you said, but it’s like a salad bar, and you can put on what you want. ”
Lark watched him duck back into the kitchen, her eyes widening as Cash lifted a long, wide tray from the counter and started to return. A big, glass bowl sat in the middle of it, and as he set the tray onto the table, all the smaller, matching bowls came into view.
One held halved grape tomatoes, another shredded cheese, and a third bright green peas.
“It turns,” he said, and he gently nudged it so a bowl of crumbled bacon came into view, then the homemade croutons, the carafe of homemade ranch dressing, and then the final two bowls—one with broccoli florets and one with cauliflower.
“So, salad.” He picked up her plate and tonged some of the greens onto it. He set it in front of her and repeated the action for his own plate. Only then did he sit down, and he reached for the little spoon in the bacon crumbles.
Lark hopped into motion too, using a pair of clear tongs she’d only ever seen in a restaurant to pinch some shredded cheese over her lettuce.
“This is all the things I put on a salad at a buffet,” Cash said, glancing over to her. “What else would you have?”
Lark considered her salad as she added tomatoes, the croutons, and even the peas. “I’m not a huge fan of raw broccoli,” she said. “And I like hard-boiled eggs on a salad.”
“That sounds good,” Cash said, his smile never-ending. Lark couldn’t help returning it, and she’d just taken her first bite of ranch-dressing-laden salad when the timer on the oven sounded.
“That’s the pot pie.” Cash launched himself out of his seat and back into the kitchen. Lark continued eating while he slid the pot pie onto the stovetop. He returned quickly and slid back into his chair. “We’ll let that rest for a few minutes, but it looks great. Nice and bubbly.”
Lark smiled at him. “I can’t wait to taste it.” And she really couldn’t. She hadn’t anticipated this being her evening, and in fact, when she’d left her apartment that morning, she’d actually harbored a brick-sized load of dread in her stomach about having to share the house with Cash.
She’d been insanely attracted to him from the moment they’d met, months ago, but fighting those feelings had taken all of her energy and focus. Yes, he irritated her on a micro-level, but Lark could admit she’d made some assumptions about him that probably weren’t true.
After all, most assumptions weren’t true.
“How’s the salad?” Cash asked.
“Amazing,” Lark said. “You’re winning a lot of points tonight.”
“Am I?” He cocked his head and watched her for a moment before spearing another bite of his salad. “I didn’t realize I needed to earn points.”
“A man always needs to earn points with a woman.” Lark gave him what she hoped was a pretty smile and put one of his homemade croutons in her mouth. After she’d chewed and swallowed it, she added, “And being able to cook is worth a lot of points.”
“I had no idea,” he said. “How have I lived this long and not known this?”
Lark laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I like your laugh,” he said, and Lark liked how he could say whatever came into his mind. “It’s like a song, like—like pretty music.”
Lark held his gaze for a moment, and then ducked her chin as a hint of heat threaded through her.
“You’re like a songbird,” he said, his voice quiet and filled with meaning.
Lark’s attention flew back to his. “A songbird.” She didn’t phrase it as a question, and the pet name settled into the fleshy parts of her heart. “I don’t hate that.”
“Me either.” Cash flashed her another smile, and when she finished her salad, he whisked their plates away and brought over new ones. He removed the salad bar tray and brought over a trivet, then finally, the chicken pot pie.
Lark pulled in a breath at the perfectly golden, flaky texture of the top crust. “Cash.” He’d cut out bird shapes from extra pie dough and placed them next to the leaf-shaped cutouts. It glistened, and Lark only saw a couple of places where the filling had bubbled up around the edges.
“This is beautiful.”
“I made larks.”
Everything that had been fighting against Cash softened and disappeared. “I see that.” She smiled softly at him and reached over to cover his hand with hers. “They’re so cute, and this looks amazing.”
Her mouth watered, but Lark couldn’t help adding, “I mean, it’ll be hard to beat my grammy’s chicken pot pie, but this is right up there just based on the look of it.”
“Let’s get the tasting out of the way then.” Cash picked up a serrated knife and cut directly across the pie, then hesitated. “Do you want a big piece or a small piece?”
“Cash-honey, I want the biggest piece.”
He laughed and cut her a big piece of chicken pot pie. As he served it to her, he said, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you leaving out the money part of my name, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” Lark rolled her eyes and focused on her chicken pot pie. It seriously looked like it had been made in a professional kitchen, and she watched as the filling oozed out of the side where Cash had cut it oh—so—slowly.
She barely wanted to use her fork to cut off a piece, but she did—the very tip of her piece of the pie—and raised it to her mouth. The chickeny scent of the filling met her nose, and she got salt with the hint of pastry just as she slid the bite against her tongue.