Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Greyson
“Let me get this straight,” I said, parking the truck in the driveway and turning to Paisley. “Dallas and Shane spent an hour trying to coerce that demon-cat out of the library.”
“Mm-hmm,” Paisley mused, a smile tugging her lips. “And Flo kept up a running commentary on their efforts the entire time.”
I tipped my head back and laughed. “Please tell me you got video proof.”
“Between Ethan and me, we got the best parts. And we uploaded a few snippets to The Vine.”
She’d already told me about Ethan and the window, and honestly, as much as I hated Jerry for all the trouble he caused, part of me was glad he’d added a humorous role to the day to ease Paisley’s nerves.
Her smile turned impish. “On a scale of one to ten, how hard did you panic when you saw the fire truck go past?”
I groaned. “You really gonna make me answer that?”
She arched an eyebrow, bright eyes dancing.
“Fine. Eleven. But Shane texted me and told me it was about a cat, not another of your fires.”
“Hey, Shane has never been on call when I accidentally burnt something!”
“Not yet.”
Paisley swatted my arm, and I chuckled, rubbing it. Then her words caught up to me. “Hey, how’d you know that? About Shane.” Because she was right.
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It just felt like the truth, I guess.”
Not a slam dunk, but I’d take it.
Inside, I let Rosie out into the backyard to stretch her legs, then trailed back to the kitchen. Paisley stood in front of the fridge, chewing her lip.
“Let me make you dinner,” I said, slinging a towel over my shoulder. “To celebrate.”
Paisley closed the fridge, face bright with curiosity. “What are we celebrating?”
“You and your first day back to work. Jerry drama aside, it was a success from everything I heard.”
Paisley crossed her arms and popped a hip against the counter. “Oh, you heard, huh? How much work do you get done in a day? Or is the shop just a front for the gossip center?”
Lifting an arm, I flexed my bicep. “You tell me.”
She rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered a second too long. “Are you a good cook?”
“Better than you,” I teased.
Paisley huffed. “I’m doing better.” She cocked her head. “At least I think I am. Am I? I haven’t technically cooked beyond the potato salad after the whole kettle debacle.” Her nose wrinkled. “And the cookies.”
“Before that, you’d only burnt one thing since we married, and that was six months ago. Roast dinner.”
She shimmied. “Let’s keep that record going then. Cook away, master chef. Do you want my help? I make a decent sous-chef.”
“No, but thanks. Take a load off. You earned it.”
Paisley smiled and moved to the couch, perfectly in my line of sight, thanks to the open kitchen and living room concept, and curled up with a beat-up paperback.
A warmth and sense of rightness tugged at my chest. This banter and dynamic was normal. I liked to cook a couple times a week, and if Paisley wasn’t insisting on helping, she was right there curled up with a book, falling through the pages into another world for an hour.
I pulled the Kiss the Cook apron over my head—a gag gift from Cal a few Christmases ago—then set the spaghetti sauce to simmer on low before I added my secret arsenal of spices. Once it was simmering, I added a package of cooked ground beef from the freezer.
All that was left was the noodles and the sautéed veggies.
As I chopped the mushrooms, garlic, and onions, my mind drifted back to Keegan’s offer.
He’d texted again today, still trying to persuade me.
I needed to tell Paisley about the job offer.
Even if she couldn’t remember that we were talking about it, she needed to know the offer was still on the table.
Because we hadn’t made a decision together yet.
And it wasn’t a decision I wanted to make without her.
I stole a glance at her as I started caramelizing the onions and frying the mushrooms. Everything was just .
. . a lot. After Cannon Beach, we’d started to reestablish our stride in a relationship.
Tentative friends and roommates so far. Upgrading to mild flirting.
I was hesitant to upset that balance, but Gabe was right.
I really shouldn’t put it off. Paisley had been choked about the whole Jared thing.
I didn’t want to repeat that just because of my own cowardice.
When the meal was ready, I called Paisley’s name.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
I grinned, balling up the hand towel draped over my shoulder and launched it at the couch. It harmlessly bounced on the cushion beside her, and it was worth it to see the way her head popped up like a groundhog, her eyes blinking rapidly to reorient herself in the real world.
“Welcome back, love.” I winked. “Want to taste test?”
Paisley giggled and jumped up. “Do you even have to ask? It smells deeeeee-vine!”
“What are you reading?” I asked, moving to the cutlery drawer to grab a fork.
“The Lantern Bearers. Of all the books I could have forgotten, I wish it had been that one. But I suppose the first time I read it was special, so . . . I guess it’s for the best.” She boosted herself up to sit on the counter beside where I was working, looking like a bookish woodland sprite with her messy bun and the maroon dress pooling around her knees. “Have you read it?”
“Yeah, while we were dating. It was good.” I’d agreed mostly just because of the way her face lit up when she talked about it, but it had been a great book. Profound and haunting in the best of ways.
Paisley snorted. “Good? No, no, no. Good is for salted caramel ice cream, French press coffee, and chocolate chip cookies. They’re good, but not exquisite. That is a masterpiece.” She sniffed appreciatively. “Like your spaghetti. Gimme.”
I twirled a forkful of the noodles, making sure to get a proper amount of sauce, and held it out to her.
She leaned in, but a soft gasp escaped her parted lips. She gripped my wrist and twisted it, nearly upsetting the fork. “Your arm!”
“It’s nothing.”
She traced a finger lightly over the crisscross of angry scratches dotting my skin, courtesy of Jerry. “I’m sorry. This was my fault.”
“You take a lot of blame for things you can’t control,” I said hoarsely. Goose bumps rose on my arm, which was ridiculous. But she was touching me. Willingly. She was close. So close I could have traced a line of kisses along the constellation of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. In fact—
“Did you clean them?”
“Hmm?” The bizarre jar of my thought pattern sent me for a loop.
“The battle wounds. Did you wash them? Cat scratches are notorious for carrying infection and—stop laughing at me!”
I couldn’t help my chuckle. “You’re very sweet. Yes, I cleaned them. Now will you taste this?”
Paisley grumbled adorably, but a smile hovered around her eyes. She blew softly, then pursed her lips around the mouthful and hummed with delight.
Never had I been so jealous of an utensil.
“You are amazing! That is amazing!” She hummed again. “I love it.” Then she eyed me. “I’ve had this before, haven’t I?”
“Yeah. Though I’m not sure you were ever so appreciative in your praise.”
“I was a fool then. That sauce is worthy of legends and ballads.” She beamed up at me, eyeing me for a moment before abruptly leaning in and kissing my cheek.
I’d been trained to expect the unexpected. Endure pepper spray. Have nerves of steel to handle grenades. But nothing had prepared me for that kiss.
I froze, but it was so fast, she was already hopping off the counter before I could react. All I could do was stare at her, mouth agape, as she walked away.
Paisley must have felt my gaze because she peeked over her shoulder and winked. “I can read, after all.”
I glanced down at my apron. Kiss the Cook. Sign me up to cook every meal if it meant we could go back to her being comfortable enough to keep kissing me.
Dinner was comfortable, and I could almost imagine nothing had changed. We were us. Paisley told me about her day, and I returned the favour. She washed and I dried the dishes before we settled back on the couch with our fancy dessert bowls filled with fresh fruit and whipped cream.
“Your night to pick a movie,” I said.
Paisley tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Is that what we usually do? Trade nights or do we bicker until we both decide?”
“Both?” I grinned. “Or we play Scrabble and you try to make up words without me noticing.”
“I would never!” she gasped in mock horror.
“Oh you would. Preglacierary was the last one you tried, insisting it meant the period before a glacier started freezing.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I stand by that assessment. Just look at the prefix and suffix. Very logical.” It would have been a stronger defense if she hadn’t punctuated it with a cute yawn. “But I don’t think I’m up for word games tonight.”
I gestured to the small DVD cabinet because we were old school like that. “Take your pick.”
“How much will you hate it if I say Pride and Prejudice?”
“Shall I make the tea?”
She giggled. “You’re amazing.”
While I steeped the tea, she set up the movie, and soon we were both on opposite ends of the sofa while the dramatic love story played out. Apparently, there was a worldwide debate about the superior adaptation of the book.
“I’m still firmly 2005,” Paisley said, sipping her Earl Grey from the forget-me-not-patterned china tea cup. “But I love the 1980 version over the 1995 one for accuracy.” So we watched the first two episodes.
Paisley had gradually sunk further and further into the couch until her feet nearly were in my lap, but she scrunched her legs up to keep them from touching me.
Gently, I rested my hand on her shin and lifted her feet into my lap.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I squeezed her calf lightly. “I want to.” I kept my hand there, massaging gently until her eyes rolled back with quiet pleasure.