CHAPTER 20
The man was trying to kill her.
He hadn’t pressured, hadn’t nudged her about doing anything. Hadn’t even brought up his little object lesson from the other day. In fact, she’d wondered if she’d just conjured the thing up in some weed-induced hallucination.
Instead, he’d slowly been showing her just how sexy little things could be.
He’d brought her things from the farm, things she hadn’t asked for. He’d given his usual excuses—“We had too many strawberries” or “I know how much you like the goat cheese,” as if they didn’t have an actual farm-stand business where these things could be sold—but his offerings had been small and thoughtful, and somehow , every time he handed her something, their hands wound up brushing just the tiniest bit. Just enough for her to be aware of it. As he gave her these gifts, he’d send her that lopsided half smile, and his gaze would be hot and lazy, and she’d feel it like a physical thing.
Somehow, they managed to keep passing each other in the hallway or the narrow space between the kitchen island and the counters. He’d brush behind her or in front of her, the barest of touches, before moving away again. She’d get a breath of his scent, a second experiencing the firmness of his muscles, and then ... gone.
Finally, she’d been experimenting with some rose-cut poached apples (which wound up being too finicky and not at all suitable for the cookbook), and he’d stood behind her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body without actually making contact. He sniffed at the dish over her shoulder.
“Smells delicious,” he’d said.
No. He’d purred .
She swore, every time he was near her, her system was bordering on overload. Whatever he was doing, if he was even doing it deliberately, was working. She’d found herself sneaking glances at him whenever he was nearby, and when they were actually talking, she’d find his gaze lowering to her lips as she talked, raising her temperature by a good ten degrees.
She knew that she was attracted to him just as much as he appeared to be to her. She was just seriously, seriously out of practice and wasn’t sure what to do next.
With that in mind, she made an excuse and told him to stay home or do other work or whatever for the next few days. She couldn’t even remember what she’d said, just that he’d agreed, and now it was two Hudson-free days later. Basically, she needed space because if she didn’t get it, she’d probably say Screw the cookbook ... and then screw him, instead, however that went.
I do miss him, though. How had that happened so quickly?
Maybe after the cookbook, she’d see what happened.
She didn’t feel guilty about that decision, per se. She wasn’t sure how Steven would feel about her dating, or even being attracted to someone, after he died. It wasn’t ever something they discussed. She got the feeling he wouldn’t mind, given his approach to life in general. She was pretty sure if she’d died, he would have moved on, and she would’ve wanted him to.
They’d always lived a big life until his diabetes had caught up with him. He’d never lived ideally for that illness. He’d simply tried to balance out his wildly extravagant lifestyle with more insulin, kicking the can down the street, making it Future Steven’s problem—and, occasionally, Present Willa’s.
She knew, on some level, that Steven had been spoiled. He was the only son of an LA lawyer and semifamous painter, and his diagnosis had hit his parents hard, showing that even their money could not protect them from genetics. He’d been gorgeous, charming, utterly vivacious. Mischievous, with a naughty smile and a fuck-it-let’s-go attitude that somehow helped him get away with murder.
She’d struggled so hard to help him keep that smile. It was the sort of thing that made you feel like you were standing in the sun on a tropical beach. She’d fallen, hard and quickly, when she’d met him at twenty-three. She’d had a high school boyfriend, but they’d broken up when they went to different colleges. In college, she’d had a few little fling-type things, but she hadn’t really been adept at the whole dating scene. If she hadn’t met Steven when on an internship, she had no idea what would’ve happened.
Instead, she was married at twenty-three and widowed at forty-four. And in that time, she’d lived with one sole purpose: keeping Steven happy and healthy, not necessarily in that order.
Now, she was alone, which she should have expected but somehow hadn’t. She was struggling, which wasn’t unusual ... but that wasn’t comforting, either, especially as she saw ahead of her a lifetime of somehow figuring out how to function when her sole purpose was gone.
She felt the tears before she registered what they were. Grimacing, she wiped at them with irritation. She had a slate of recipes, or at least contenders. She needed to get them tested, get them written, then piece together all the connective tissue that would make this an actual cookbook. Then they could do what they wanted with it, as long as she got paid.
The last thing she needed was a distraction.
But what happens when the cookbook’s done?
She bit her lip. She’d take a page out of Steven’s book for now ... that was Future Willa’s problem. With any luck, and from what she’d inadvertently heard at the barbecue, Hudson might’ve moved on by then, for all she knew. He seemed to like sex, and from what she’d experienced, she’d bet he was unbelievably good at it.
If he moved on, it would suck, but she had to admit it would solve her problem.
Men came and went—sometimes literally—but mortgages were seemingly forever. That was the issue at hand, and she had to focus.
She was making chai-poached pears this time, with cinnamon whipped cream. It’d photograph well, it wasn’t too hard, and it tasted fantastic. A bit autumn-y, but she was pretty sure she could push the sexy element.
The pears were cooling and she was working on whipping the cream when she heard a scratching at her back door. Since she was blasting music, she wasn’t sure initially. After turning it down, though, the scratching sound was unmistakable.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered, opening the door carefully.
Sure enough, there was a cheerful Noodle, who strode in like he owned the place.
“Why? Why are you here?” she wailed as he wagged his tail at her and gave her a doggy smile. “It’s because I gave you chicken, isn’t it? I did that once !”
Okay, technically twice. Because she’d had some boiled chicken for her g?i gà, a Vietnamese salad that was perfect for summer. He’d looked at her with literal puppy eyes, and it would take a stronger woman than her to turn that fuzzy little face down.
After sniffing the air to gauge if there was anything he could possibly beg for, he strutted over to the braided rag rug her aunt had in front of the fireplace, curling up with a happy huff.
She tugged at her hair. “You,” she said with no venom, “are a menace to my plans.”
The whole reason she’d told Hudson to stay home was because she thought she’d get a break. Apparently Noodle had other ideas.
At least she knew what to do this time. She pulled out her phone and texted Hudson.
WILLA: Guess who’s back at my house?
His response was immediate.
HUDSON: Sorry! We’re used to coming in and out and he’s a bullet. That, and I’m pretty sure he’s figured out how to open the screen door.
Willa couldn’t help but grin. “You’re too smart, Noodle,” she said, and he thumped his tail against the floor.
WILLA: Don’t worry, you know I love Noodle. How about I just keep him overnight?
There. That sounded casual, right?
His response, however, wasn’t.
HUDSON: If it’s okay, I’ll just swing by. Jeremy’s home, and it’s his dog.
Her heart started pounding, and her stomach fluttered. She didn’t have any real reason to tell him not to come. If she said “No, I’m keeping your dog” or “Why doesn’t your son grab him?” it would be even more obvious that she was dodging him, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings at all.
Of course, she could also just be an adult and communicate clearly. But how did you say “I think I’d like to bang you like a screen door in a hurricane, but I haven’t had sex in almost half a decade, and I’m conflicted, and I’m not sure what we’re doing, and I have this whole work thing that is affecting the rest of my life” without sounding ... well, unhinged?
She didn’t know what she’d do if someone dumped all that on her. It was probably unfair for her to consider tossing Hudson in the deep end of that kind of mess.
So she sucked it up and waited for him to stop by.
He was there in minutes. He walked in through her unlocked front door, since he’d been here so often working, and she’d felt ridiculous insisting that he knock every morning when he showed up for work or when he came back from the hardware store or whatever. “Smells good in here,” he said.
“Pears aren’t in season quite yet,” she said critically, studying the plate she was assembling before piping some whipped cream and garnishing it with some grated cinnamon. “But it should taste pretty good.” She took a few pictures with her phone.
“Looks like you’re making progress.” He sounded approving.
She smiled back at him, and the warmth and encouragement in his expression made her heart stutter. “Slower than I’d like,” she downplayed.
“Thank you for hanging on to this little escape artist,” he said, nodding at Noodle, who was snoozing in a sunbeam, happy in the autumn-scented kitchen.
“It’s really my pleasure,” she said. “I’m sure he’s used to being here because he’s been here with you, and I’m glad he likes it here.”
“He scratched at your door?” Hudson asked. When she nodded, he shook his head. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it? I really will get on Jeremy to make sure that he stays put, if you want. Maybe we could ... I don’t know, get an electric fence or something.”
She let out a yelp. “Those zapper things? Absolutely not!”
The look on his face said he was glad that’s how she’d answered. “I don’t like them either.”
“I don’t mind if Noodle scratches the door,” she said slowly, her brain whirring as she worked on a solution. “But I listen to music loud sometimes. It helps me think. If it was raining again, I’d hate to not hear him.”
“I could put in a doggy door,” he said.
She thought about how much she’d budgeted for the renovations, minor though they were, for potentially flipping the house. Even with Hudson’s discounts, which she felt bad about, it was the number of things that needed to be fixed that added up. It’d be tight, but ... “How much would that cost?”
“It’s on the house.”
“No, I couldn’t!” she protested. “You’re already doing so much ...”
“You’re looking out for my family’s dog. It’s the least I could do.”
“No,” she said, stubborn this time. He just ... he just kept giving to her. Her parents would be appalled that she was essentially freeloading this way, and while he didn’t seem to be expecting anything, she still felt weird. “Let me pay for it.”
“All right.” He smiled. “Dinner, and we’ll call it square.”
“I know you like my cooking,” she said with a weak laugh, “but that’s not anywhere near even.”
“We can go to dinner to this new restaurant on the island,” he said. “It’s kind of bougie, but it’s supposed to be really good.”
“All right, I’ll buy you dinner,” she agreed, thinking she’d insist on him ordering, like, lobster or something.
“No, I’d be buying you dinner.”
“That’s not—”
He tilted his head, then held out his hand, surprising her into stopping her sentence. Slowly, unsure, she took his hand. It was calloused and hard, much bigger than hers. His fingers exerted gentle pressure, then stroked the back of her hand.
“I’m asking you out, Willa.”
His words cut across like a laser, and she froze.
“Unless I’m making you uncomfortable,” he said, his deep voice careful. “Listen, I don’t want to be that guy. I know I work here, and I’m in your space all the time. I think that there’s something between us. Like I said, I’m definitely attracted to you, and I thought you were attracted to me. But if I’m crowding you or making you feel scared ... I won’t bring it up again, period. I respect you, and the last thing I want you to feel is anxious around me.”
That. It was things like that, the thoughtfulness, the carefulness. There was really no protection against it.
“Willa?” he asked slowly. “I guess I should ...”
“You can put in the dog door,” she said slowly. “Then ... we can ... go out to dinner.”
She swallowed hard. That was one of the hardest sentences she’d ever said.
“But I can’t promise more than dinner,” she added softly.
His expression was so gentle.
“Well, I can promise,” he said, in that deep, rough-but-soft voice of his, “that I’m never going to ask for more than you’re willing to give.”