Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Autumn
I’m cooking. Why? Because stupid Ezra is coming over to talk about the restaurant, and it’s dinnertime, and when I’m nervous, I cook.
I'm rusty though. I've taken over a lot more of the managerial jobs for the farm—by default, I have less time to cook. The other night, I had a frozen pizza for dinner. The fact does nothing for my confidence at the moment.
“I think what’s happening are nerves. Due to all your feelings .” Meg’s tone is way too Dr. Laura. She’s lucky I’m too busy or I might hang up on her for the way she said the word feelings . Doesn’t she realize I am working extremely hard to not have feelings?
She’s on speaker and at the highest possible volume so I can hear her over the sizzling of my frying chicken. But I’d be perfectly happy to unhear that.
I’m trying to get the perfect crust on my breaded chicken. I am not making chicken parmesan because ten years ago it was Ezra’s favorite. Nope. Not at all… I’m making it because I happened to have all of the in gredients for it.
“Autumn—”
I may not have a free finger to hang up on her, but I still have a voice. "I do not have any feelings!" Yep, I'm yelling at my BFF—who is the sweetest of all women. No one should ever be allowed to yell at her. Ever . And here I am, yelling.
It’s all Ezra’s fault.
“You do, sweetie.” Sweetie ? That's my line. That's what I call her when she's being ridiculous and I'm talking her out of being ridiculous. Like when she thinks about buying Post-it notes in new colors because they match her colorful file folders rather than food . Or like when she had perfectly good tickets to Hawaii and she had no intention of using them. That’s when I bust out the sweetie . But—
Wait? Am I being ridiculous? Is Meg using the sweetie line on me because now I’m the one who needs to come to her senses?
I’m not. No way. I am perfectly sensible.
“Meghan, I do not have any feelings. Understand? It’s been ten years. We’ve both moved on.”
“Moved on?” she says, testing me.
I am in no mood to be tested. “I have moved… On . Waaay on.”
“Romantically?”
“Sure,” I say—but man, my voice is way too high-pitched.
“How?” Meg’s tone is patient, as if she has all day and she will gladly wait as I come up with something.
“I’ve dated. There was a guy. That one guy… remember ?” There was no such guy. However, if Meg is the best of all best friends, she’ll give me this one.
“No,” she says, going down a notch on the best friend pole. “In the two years I lived in Love, you dated no one but your plaid shirts and those denim overalls you love so much.”
“Hey, those overalls are amazing. Do you have any idea how many pockets those overalls have?” I swallow and flip the two chicken breasts in my pan. No, I’m not cooking one for him and one for me. I’m cooking for myself and one for leftovers tomorrow. If Ezra asks to eat—well, I’m not a complete jerk. I’ll probably give it to him. “Well, there was a guy,” I lie. “And we totally went on a date.”
“ Awesome .”
“And Ezra—” I say, because this is the more important piece of information. “Well, he was engaged. So, see? He’s moved on too. We’ve both moved on.”
“ Clearly . That must be why you made out in the shed.”
Why did I tell her about that?
“We didn’t make out. It was one kiss and a mistake. And that’s it.” I swallow and dip my homemade pasta gently into the pan of boiling water. It’s fresh and will only need two minutes to cook.
“Feelings don’t die just because time passes, Autumn.” Man, she’s in teacher-lecture mode. Normally, I cheer her on, loving the boss-girl tone she gets, but I’m not usually the recipient of those lectures.
I sigh—like she’s tiring me. “Of course they do. Anything you don’t feed dies.” That sounds so true. And wise. I am so good.
However, I could also argue that dead things feel no pain. And I have felt plenty of pain over the years, but more recently, this week. Ah—yep, I’m gonna stick with the feeding theory at the moment.
“This is different,” Meg says. “Maybe fleeting feelings without any depth would die. But we both know that’s not what the two of you had. You need to talk to him.”
I scoop the pasta from my boiling water and lay it gently into a bowl. “You know what, you aren’t all that helpful. And I’m cooking. So I’m going to—”
“Autumn,” Meg chimes. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make this harder than it already is. I’m trying to help a friend who had to help me. Sometimes we need those outside eyes to see what we can’t.”
I’m so tempted to ask what she sees. But I don’t.
Because the thing is—Ezra left. I made sure of it. Then, he got engaged. He moved on. He made his career dreams come true, despite the small hiccup of him being jobless and homeless at the moment. And keeping him here, away from New York and near his father, would do the exact opposite of what I set out to accomplish all those years ago. What would be the point of my sacrifice, then?
I remind myself of what she’s said— outside eyes . I swallow. “I know,” I tell her, because she loves me. She means well. I know she does.
“I think—”
There’s a knock on my screen door. I peek out my opened kitchen entrance. My front door is opened wide, letting me see tall, dark, and grown-up Ezra standing on the other side.
“Okay!” I yell. “Thanks for all that great information, Meg. Love you! Bye! Bye!” And then I drop my slotted spoon into the boiling pot of water and hang up on my bestie.
My nerves are a jumbled mess. Why did I agree to Ezra coming over? Why is he wearing a sweater that covers his chiseled forearms and makes his shoulders look as if they've turned into boulders? Why did I change my clothes? I can cook and talk in dirty jeans and a T-shirt. But nope, I had to put on my black leggings and that ivory blouse I found in the back of my closet when searching for professional clothes. The one I decided wasn’t appropriate to interview in. I should have thrown it out then. But instead, I came home and decided that tonight was the perfect night to try it out.
What is wrong with me?
I’m realizing now that none of my choices make sense. And I want a do-over. Somebody rewind the night and let me change into sweats and an old ratty Love High School T-shirt.
I’m tempted to excuse myself and change, but I’ve got to get that pasta in sauce quick, and Ezra is waiting on the porch for me to open the door.
I swallow. “Ah, come in!” I call before spooning my pasta onto two plates.
“Whoa. Autumn,” Ezra says, walking back into the kitchen. “Chicken parmesan?” He smiles and yep, I want a big ol’ do-over. Chicken parm was a bad idea. “It smells amazing in here.”
He’s not wrong. It does.
My chicken parm is amazing. Dang it.
“Yeah. Well. You wanted to meet and I have to eat.” I swallow. “I mean, I’m not an animal, so if you want to eat too, you can. Whatever.” I give the most nonchalant shrug anyone has ever given.
Ezra’s laugh is low and resides in his chest. That broad, built chest that decided to expand in the past ten years. Holy smokes, it’s warm in here. I really need to get a fan installed.
“I’d love to eat.”
“Fine. Whatever,” I say, but every one of my nerve endings has decided that we are on high alert. And crazed. I have lost all control. I want it known that if I have a heart attack and die this very night, it’s all Ezra Bennett’s fault.
Whoa .
Harsh, Autumn.
Okay—I take it back. It's not all Ezra's fault. But he's not innocent either.
I set one hand to his chest and push him three feet back, into the living room. “You stay here. Sit. I’ll dish up,” I tell him before hurrying back to hide in the kitchen.
I arrange Ezra’s plate as if he were a food critic and I might be judged on this performance. I huff, annoyed with myself. Ezra Bennett is not the judge and jury here. In fact, he works for me. Okay… he works for the Linus’s, and in a roundabout way, that means he works for me.
I could so fire him.
Maybe …
If Dessie would let me .
And yet, I assemble his plate until it looks like a work of art. Someone should take a photo and hang it on an Olive Garden wall because this is a pretty plate. The sprig of green cilantro on top makes every color pop.
I pick up his plate, thankful he’s not in here watching me work, and walk it out to him.
He stares at a photo of Summer and me last year at the Fourth of July parade. “Summer is all grown up,” he says to me, though he’s still looking at the photo. “It’s weird. She should still be fifteen.”
“It happens. Here.” I hold the plate out to him. “You can sit at the table back in the kitchen or on the couch. Wherever you’re comfortable.”
“Thanks, Autumn. This looks amazing.” His hazel eyes rise to mine and smolder.
What the heck? He has no right to be smoldering when this is clearly a work dinner. I did not take the tags off of this V-neck blouse for him or for smoldering but for the sake of business.
My fingers grip the plate while he tries to take it. I’m just not sure this is a good idea. What was I thinking, cooking for Ezra? I can’t let him take this plate. It says too much. He needs to understand. “This is about work. About the bistro. You brought all your blueprints and builder information, right? Because if not, you can go.”
“I brought it,” he says, with a small tug on his dinner plate.
"You're sure?" I tug right back because he's not getting this dinner unless it's as the architect who Dessie sneakily hired behind my back. He's not allowed to be here as Ezra, the boy who stole my heart and makes me feel things.
“I’m sure,” he says, tugging at the same second I decide to give up.
It’s a bad combo.
A combo that makes me grateful I have hardwood floors.
With his final tug and my surrender, the perfect pasta storm is released into the air and all over Ezra. Pasta, red sauce, chicken, and that beautiful sprig of cilantro all end up on the man in front of me. That pretty blue sweater is now stained forever with marinara. My beautiful homemade pasta slides down his front and over his left pant leg.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Usually, I prefer to eat my dinner,” he says, always even-tempered.
“I’m—” I stop myself from apologizing. I don’t want to apologize to him. And he’s the one who tugged. I spent an hour cooking— for him . “You can clean up in the bathroom.” I step closer, not meaning to, and instantly the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne fills my senses.
I clear my throat, snag the one piece of fettuccini that's hanging from his head, and then point down the hall to my one and only bathroom.
“I’m sorry, Autumn.” He peers down at the floor where the rest of his pasta has decided to take up residence.
I blow a huff through my lips. “It’s fine. Just go wash up. I’ve got this.”
Grabbing a few supplies, I hurry back into the living room and clean up the mess on the floor. When everything is back in order, I wash my hands and carefully cut my meal in half—even my lone sprig of cilantro. I place half of my pasta, meat, and veggies on a new plate and wipe at the excess sauce streaking over my white dinner plate.
It’s still pretty. Just small.
I set the dishes on the table, across from one another, not side by side. I push Ezra’s farther onto the table, making sure he doesn’t dump this one too.
I’m sitting, deciding if I should offer him help or just eat without him, when I hear the bathroom door open.
Strangely, his mess has calmed the nerves playing ping-pong inside my body. Maybe I can get through this night without hyperventilating.
And then the man walks into my kitchen.
Shirtless.
I choke, though I haven’t eaten anything yet. “Where are your clothes?” I cough out.
“My sweater is in the sink. I’m hoping the sauce will come out if I soak it.”
I shield my eyes from his tanned abs as if they were a spotlight directly in my eyes. When did Ezra gain a six-pack? Wasn’t he busy studying, dating, and then working?
“The stain is there for life! It’s marinara, man! Your sweater is a goner! Now, go get dressed!” I peer up. Because maybe Ezra spilled something in here too and it ended up on the ceiling.
Ezra laughs. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
I force my eyes to his, but I can’t unsee that bare chest. It doesn’t matter that I’m super gluing my gaze to those dumb hazel eyes of his. “Yes. Yes, you are.”
“Autumn,” he says, walking closer. “You’ve seen me without a shirt on before.”
“Not in a while! And I’d rather you not walk around my house like you’re at a frat party.” I cross my arms and pierce those eyes… because if I stare long and hard enough at his face, my peripheral vision will learn to behave.
“And you know what’s happening at frat parties?”
I huff, my blood starting to boil. He knows I don’t. “Maybe I didn’t go to a big fancy college like you, but I have Hulu.”
“I see. Well, my sweater is wet. So, I’m not putting it back on. You’re going to have to live with it.” His lips part into a grin and his eyes fall to my mouth.
Oh, no you don’t, mister. You are not allowed to look at my mouth.
I press my full lips in on one another and then peer down at my shoes. “Surely you have a shirt back at your rental. Just go get one.”
“I do. But I’m comfortable. And hungry.”
I lift my head to glare at him.
“And it’s really fun watching you squirm. I’ve missed it.”
My heart betrays me, warming and thumping and fluttering all on its own. Feelings . Ugh. I mentally remind my heart that we don’t love Ezra Bennett anymore, and it should probably just settle down. But it’s like a disobedient child, hungry for sugar and sitting right in front of a bowl of Halloween candy.
“I haven’t missed you,” I lie. “Not one little bit.”
“Except that you have.”
I reach out and flick him right on his bare pectoral. “Stop that.”
Ezra grabs a hold of my wrist. “You stop pretending.”
I gulp down my heart and lie. “I’m not pretending.”
“You are. And we both know it.” He weaves an arm around me, his hand pressed at the small of my back, inching me closer. “You didn’t send me away because you stopped loving me, Autumn.”
No, I did not. If anything, it was the opposite. My stupid teenage heart loved him more than anything in the world.
My lips tingle, remembering his as they pressed to mine, as his sweet, minty breath took over every single one of my senses. Ezra Bennett is like a drug. And I’ve been clean for ten long years. But that doesn’t stop the cravings.
For years, I wanted two things: out of this town and Ezra. I didn’t get either.
And dangling himself in front of me now is the meanest tease of all. I’ve been strong. So strong. But I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. If only I hadn’t kissed him. If I hadn’t given in, the longing wouldn’t be so difficult now.
Ezra’s head falls, closing in on me. I am a statue. Frozen in time. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. It’s not my fault… at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
He’s close and he smells like he just stepped out from bathing beneath a waterfall: musky and clean, fresh and masculine. It’s a scent any good woman could drown in. Again—not my fault.
He’s ready to close the gap when a tap on my front door, just out of sight, sets us both to pause.
“Leave it,” he whispers, his sweet, minty drug beckoning me.