Chapter 12 #2
He’s gone from racecar-driver-rugged to business-suit-professional to casual Mainer. I like this look the best.
“What’s in the box?” I tip up my chin.
“I noticed you mentioned pumpkin creamer the other day at the garage. Thought you might be a pumpkin spice girl, so I bought you a few pumpkin items. One muffin. One donut. I didn’t know if you had a preference.”
Because he doesn’t know me, but he did notice my enthusiasm for pumpkin flavoring.
“That was . . . sweet of you.” I choke around the words. Not because it wasn’t kind, but because I’m not used to someone doing something so thoughtful for me. I’m not used to someone paying attention to the fine details.
He sets the box on the low table in front of my couch and slips his hands into his back pockets. “So.” He hums. “How are you today?”
“Really? You came all this way to ask me how I am?” I don’t live in a neighborhood, but near a cliff in an old guest house that once belonged to a larger property. Now, this sliver of land is mine and slightly secluded.
“I don’t have your number . . . which we should exchange.” He pulls out his phone and steps closer to the island table.
“Why?” I hold my ground, not moving for my phone on the opposite counter.
“Because I want to check in on you. I want to be available to you.” He pauses, lowering his phone. “I want to be included.”
His brown eyes are so hopeful, so eager.
I should ask, for how long? I should ask when he’s leaving. But I don’t have any fight in me today. I just wanted to try to make an apple pie for some reason.
His gentle desire to be included hits a nerve.
I’ve never been included. Growing up, the girls I went to school with all loved different things than I did.
As an adult, I’d hoped to make new friends, but one small community is similar to another, and most women I met didn’t want to talk about transmission or washer fluid.
They want to talk about books and babies, or husbands and recipes. And I didn’t have any of those things.
I had me. And the shop.
Sighing, I hang my head as I lean against the butcher table again. “I’m due in a few weeks, so I go to the doctor every week now.” Slowly, I lift my head. “What are you doing next Wednesday?”
I expect him to say he has an appointment or he’ll be back in New York by then, but he doesn’t even blink.
“I’ll be with you.”
“Don’t you need to check a calendar or something? Ask your assistant?” The thought of him having a cute little assistant in a slim-fitting skirt and sharp blouse unbuttoned one button more than necessary pops into my head. She’s probably blond, efficient, and intelligent.
I hate her.
He reaches for his hair, then slips his hand into his back pocket again. Interesting.
“I don’t have an assistant. And my calendar is clear.”
I tip my head, uncertain if he’s lying or just appeasing me, but again, I don’t have the energy to argue with him.
“Ten o’clock. I’ll send you the address.” I reach for my phone and pull up my contacts. For some reason, I type Driver for his name, then add the digits he gives me for his phone number. He takes my number as well.
Almost instantly, I get a text.
Hi.
“Hi.” I glance up at him, catching him watching me.
He looks around the room. “You’ve got a nice place here. It’s cozy.” He glances at the low couch and a woven rattan wingback chair with a cushion on the seat. From where he’s standing, he’s getting the grand tour. My bedroom can be seen through the open door to his right.
“It’s small,” I say, as if reading what he isn’t saying.
“A bit tight for two.”
“It’s only me,” I counter.
He nods toward my belly. “Not for much longer.”
I glance down at my stomach and run my hand over it. “We’ll manage,” I say quietly, speaking more to my belly than to him.
I have just enough space to put a crib near the foot of my bed. I had to forego a changing table. I’ll set a waterproof pad on the bed for diaper changes. The house is not really one we can grow in, so eventually, this place might be one more thing I need to give up.
But that is another day’s problem.
“So, I guess I’ll see you on—”
“What are you baking?” He steps closer to the island table, ignoring my rather blatant attempt to nudge him out the door.
“A pie.”
He stares down at the ingredients and containers on the butcher block. He nods, his head wobbling back and forth like he’s trying to think of something to say.
“It didn’t work,” I blurt, saving him from having to force a compliment.
“I can see that.”
“You don’t need to be so critical.”
His head pops up. His eyes worried until he sees me smiling back at him.
“I’m teasing,” I clarify.
He meets my smile, cautious and uncertain, before he says, “Maybe we could start over. With the pie,” he rushes. “Start from scratch.”
I snort. “Do you even know how to make an apple pie?”
He shrugs. “I can learn. Plus, how hard can it be?” Then he eyes the mess in front of me. “Okay. Well, even if it is a bit difficult, we could figure it out. Together.”
Somehow, I’m no longer certain we’re discussing pies or how to make them, but he continues.
“Let’s start with fresh apples.”
I glare down at the ones I’ve cut. They’re already browning from sitting in the bowl for hours.
“What’s wrong with these?” Maybe they’ve lost their freshness, but—
“Honeycrisp work great in a pie. And I know where we can get the crispest ones.”
“Where?” I tilt my head in disbelief.
“Come with me and find out.” He nods toward the door. “Trust me.”
Again, I don’t think we’re actually talking about apples here, but something inside me says to believe in him.
At least, as far as picking out apples goes.