3. Chapter 3 #2
“That doesn’t answer the accusation.”
“There’s enough for two.”
Of course there is. A cutting board sits on the counter with potatoes and onions. Another plate holds two steaks.
“Did you buy extra food?”
“No.”
I look at the two steaks. “You regularly eat two steaks?”
“No.”
“Ty.”
He turns one over in the skillet. “I bought groceries yesterday.”
“You bought groceries after you knew I was moving in.”
“Yes.”
“That counts as rearranging your life around me.”
“I was already going to the store.”
“Did you normally buy two steaks?”
He looks at me. “No.”
I smile. “Caught you.”
“You want one or not?”
“Yes.”
He points toward a bowl of tomatoes. “Make yourself useful.”
I laugh. “So much for guest treatment.”
“You said you weren’t a project.”
“Good memory.”
“I have one.”
I start slicing tomatoes. It is strangely easy. That’s what bothers me.
We should be awkward. We have known each other a week. I moved into his house because my landlords sold mine, and I’m pretending to date him so an elderly rancher will feel better about a land sale.
Nothing about this should feel ordinary.
But Ty cooks while I make a salad, and somehow we fall into a rhythm without discussing it. He moves around me when he needs the refrigerator. I hand him the salt without being asked. He takes plates from the cabinet while I find forks.
Seven of them.
I smile to myself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling at the silverware.”
“I’m adjusting to your abundance.”
He shakes his head.
We sit at the table. Two chairs across from each other. The steak is good. Annoyingly good.
“You can cook.”
“I told you.”
“I assumed you were exaggerating.”
“I don’t usually.”
“No. You mostly under-explain.”
He takes a drink. “I talk when there’s something to say.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
His mouth moves.
I cut another piece of steak. “So why four bedrooms?”
He looks at me. “You already asked.”
“You gave me half an answer.”
“I built the house when I was twenty-seven.”
“Yes. Somehow that did not solve the mystery.”
He leans back slightly. “I thought I’d get married.”
The answer is so direct I almost choke on my water.
“Oh.”
“Have kids.” He says it like he’s discussing weather.
I look toward the hallway. “And then?”
“Then I didn’t.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
“I don’t know. A tragic story. Lost love. Fiancée who ran away with a rodeo clown.”
“No rodeo clowns.”
“Thank God.”
“I dated.”
“Serious?”
“A couple times.”
“What happened?”
He considers me. I’m suddenly aware that this is personal.
“You don’t have to answer.”
“The ranch happened.”
I wait.
“I worked too much,” he says. “Still do. Most people don’t want to come second to cattle.”
“Did you put them second?”
“Yes.”
No defensiveness. No attempt to make himself look better. Just yes. That makes me like him more than an excuse would have.
“Do you regret it?”
“Some of it.”
His eyes move toward the kitchen. The blue mug beside the white one. Then back to me.
“I thought I had more time.”
Something in my chest shifts. I understand that feeling more than I want to. Not about marriage. About life. The way you can keep telling yourself you’ll make the change later until one day you realize later has been happening without you.
“I get that,” I say.
He doesn’t ask why. I appreciate him for it.
We finish dinner. I stand to clear the plates.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“You cooked.”
“So?”
“So I’m cleaning.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He looks at me.
I smile. “See? I can say it too.”
This time, he laughs. Not much. One short sound. But it’s the first time I’ve heard it. I like it far too much.
The first week is surprisingly uneventful.
Which is not the same thing as uncomplicated.
Ty leaves early every morning.
I hear him moving around the kitchen before six, boots on the hardwood, coffee maker running, back door opening and closing.
By the time I come out, there’s always coffee left. He never says he made it for me. I never point out that he started making twice as much after I moved in.
At night, one of us cooks. Not because we agreed to. It just happens.
Sunday, Ty grills chicken.
Monday, I make pasta.
Tuesday, he makes chili.
Wednesday, I bring home sandwiches from Peak Bites because Caroline keeps me late and neither of us feels like cooking.
My groceries migrate into his refrigerator. My jacket hangs beside his. My boots end up next to his by the door. My plant sits above the sink.
On Thursday, I come home and find a small bookshelf against the wall in my room.
I stop in the doorway. Ty is outside near the barn. I walk to the window and look out. He’s closing a gate. I look back at the bookshelf.
My books have been stacked on the nightstand since Saturday. I didn’t ask for this.
When he comes inside twenty minutes later, I’m in the kitchen. “You put a bookshelf in my room.”
He goes to the sink and washes his hands. “There was one in the storage room.”
“You moved it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your books were falling over.”
He dries his hands. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He waits.
I sigh. “I like it.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He opens the refrigerator. That’s it. No big deal.
Except apparently it is, because later that night I arrange my books on the shelf and spend entirely too much time thinking about the fact that he noticed they needed somewhere to go.
Friday evening, Ty is making dinner when he says, “Caldwell invited us over.”
I stop cutting peppers. “For what?”
“Dinner.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
I look at him. “Our first official performance.”
“Looks that way.”
I put the knife down and wipe my hands on a towel. “We need rules.”
Ty leans against the counter. “Of course we do.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You keep making rules.”
“They prevent chaos.”
“I’m learning.”
I pull out my phone and open the notes app.
He looks at it. “You’re writing them down?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what notes apps are for.”
He folds his arms.
I ignore him. “First, our story. How long have we been dating?”
“A few weeks?”
“That works. New enough that people haven’t seen us everywhere, long enough that Caldwell believes this isn’t our second conversation.”
“Probably smart.”
“How did we meet?”
“The trailer.”
I look up. “That is not romantic.”
“It’s true.”
“Fine. We tell the truth whenever possible. Easier to remember.”
I type.
“Physical contact.”
Ty goes very still. I pretend not to notice.
“What about it?”
“We need to look like people who are dating.”
“Right.”
“So hand-holding is fine.”
“Okay.”
“Hand on my back.”
His eyes stay on mine. “Okay.”
“Arm around me if we’re sitting together.”
“Okay.”
I look back at my phone. This suddenly feels less like logistics.
“If something else comes up, we play it by ear.”
“You play things by ear?”
“Only under controlled circumstances.”
“That sounds painful for you.”
“It is.”
His mouth twitches. I type another note even though I’ve stopped reading what I’m writing.
“Any boundaries on your end?”
He thinks for a second. “If I touch you and you don’t like it, tell me.”
My thumb stops. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Something about his tone makes me look up.
No teasing now. No almost-smile. Just Ty. Steady.
“Okay,” I say.
Then he adds, “Same goes for you.”
I smile. “Worried I’ll take advantage?”
“No.”
The way he says it sends heat straight through me.
I look at my phone again. “Good talk.”
“Very organized.”
“Thank you.”
Saturday evening, Ty pulls his truck from beside the barn to the front porch.
I watch through the window. He gets out. Walks up the steps. Knocks.
I open the door. “You live here.”
“I know.”
“You just drove thirty feet.”
“I know.”
“So you could pick me up.”
“Seemed right.”
I stare at him. He’s wearing clean jeans and a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Apparently tonight’s enemy is sleeves.
“You are a strange man.”
“Ready?”
I grab my coat. “Yes.”
He opens the passenger door for me too. I decide not to fight him. Mostly because I’m wearing boots with a heel and climbing into his truck while he stands there waiting is already doing strange things to my concentration.
Ty is quieter than usual during the drive.
I glance over. “Nervous?”
“No.”
“You’re gripping the steering wheel.”
“I’m driving.”
“You do that every day.”
He glances at me. “You nervous?”
“No.”
“Your foot’s bouncing.”
I look down. Traitor.
“I’m preparing.”
“For dinner?”
“For lying convincingly to an elderly man.”
“Good.”
“I’m glad one of us is taking this seriously.”
His mouth shifts. “I’m taking it seriously.”
I look out the window before he catches me smiling.
Caldwell’s ranch is beautiful. Older than Ty’s. Mature trees around the house, weathered barn, fences that look like they’ve been repaired a thousand times rather than replaced. The kind of property that feels attached to the ground.
Ty parks. He comes around to my side. When I step down, his hand settles at my lower back.
I knew this was coming. I put it in the rules. That does not prepare me for it. His palm is warm through my coat. Broad. Steady. He doesn’t pull me closer. Doesn’t do anything inappropriate. He just guides me toward the house. My body reacts like he put his hand somewhere much more interesting.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
“You walked into the truck door.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Sure.”
“Do not get smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking smug thoughts.”
“I might be.”
Before I can answer, Caldwell opens the front door. “Ty.”
Then his face brightens when he sees me. “And this must be Kayla.”
I smile. “Mr. Caldwell. Thank you for having me.”
I hold up the pie I bought at Peak Bites. “I brought dessert. Full disclosure, I did not make it. I don’t want to begin our relationship with deception.”
Caldwell laughs. A real, warm laugh. He looks at Ty. “I like her.”
Ty’s hand is still on my back. “So do I.”
My stomach flips. That was not in the notes.
Caldwell ushers us inside. Dinner is pot roast, potatoes, green beans, and the pie I didn’t make. His housekeeper apparently prepared most of it earlier in the day, but Caldwell insists on serving everything himself.