19. Lucy
19
LUCY
I ’m not the most amazing cook in the world, but I have a lot of fresh ingredients and the internet to search for recipes.
I stare at my phone, making sure I prepare the casserole precisely as the video shows.
I want this to be exactly right. I’m so upset that I scared off Court’s housekeeper. I tried to call after her, but I didn’t dare open the front door after she fled, as Matilda was determined to get out.
“Learning something new?”
Court’s voice is so close and so startling that I jump back from the stove, straight into his chest.
His arms go around me as he laughs. “Sorry. I’m stealthy. You okay?” He makes sure I have my footing before letting me go. He has socks and a pair of sneakers in one hand.
“Yes. I didn’t hear you at all.” I glance down at his bare feet. For the first time, I’m the one in shoes. I like it. He has strong man feet, sturdy legs, and bulging thigh muscles disappear into what appear to be workout shorts.
I’m staring.
I whip around to face the stove. “I need to put it in.” Oh, God. That sounds so wrong. “The casserole. Into the oven. It’s going in the oven.” I’m a stammering mess.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “Do I have time to hit the gym downstairs?”
“About an hour.”
“That’s perfect then.” He sits at the table, pulling on his socks.
I watch him from the corner of my eye, sprinkling shredded cheese on top of the casserole for the final step.
He stands. “I’ll be back.”
“Hey, can I get a clarification on something?”
He pauses by the end of the counter. He’s something, his hair askew, a fitted T-shirt stretching over his chest, the shorts. Those strong legs. I feel a little wobbly.
“Sure.”
“Matilda. Is she confined to the balcony?”
He shrugs. How can a shrug be so sexy? “You obviously let her in here earlier.”
“It’s just—you put away the books and albums, and it seemed like a few other things as though you expected her inside.”
“I did some basic goat proofing.” He glances around. “There’s probably more she could get into unsupervised.”
“Oh, I would never give her the run of the place. But if she’s sitting with me?”
“Sure. It’s not goat jail.”
I open my mouth to thank him, but he’s already gone. The front door opens, then closes.
It feels lonelier than it did before. I examine the spread of cheese on the dish, convinced that if only I make this perfect, everything will somehow work out between us. I’m not looking to be his wife or great love. But forging a light, easy relationship before the baby comes will help smooth things over when the paternity test shows the baby is his.
And it will.
I slide the casserole into the oven and open the door to the balcony. “Come on, little one. We can hang out until Court gets back.”
Matilda lifts her head, eyes half-closed, then drops it down again. She likes her misty spot. Probably the outdoors feels better to her, even on concrete. We need hay. I wish I could walk her so she could eat shrubbery and forage, but in the city, she might eat someone’s garden or decor.
Manhattan is no place for a goat. And getting her downstairs could tip off the neighbors, who might report it.
No, we’re stuck.
I close the door and wander the living room for the hundredth time. Court moved several items, evidenced by the blank spots on his bookshelf. But he left anything high and out of Matilda’s reach. There are more books, a mixture of fiction and… huh. A ton of carpentry manuals.
I read through the titles. Tables. Chairs. Decorative boxes. He has three on bed frames. I pull one out and open it. Sawdust drifts from the pages.
He used these. Or someone did.
Many of the books show the wear and tear of being propped open, particularly on pages demonstrating tricky techniques for complex detailing. I laugh when it appears an entire pot of wood stain was spilled on one section, gluing the pages together.
I set them back and wander the room. What I look for, and don’t find, are photos. None of his family. No friends. No picnics or coworkers or out with buddies. Other than the well-loved carpentry books, this could be a staged home for a decorator or real estate agent.
I’ve wandered through his living room, dining area, kitchen, and my bedroom and bath. There’s an extra bathroom in the hall with a nautical theme and two closed doors. I assume one is a closet, but based on the placement of the other, it has to be another bedroom. I wonder what he uses it for and briefly picture the red room from Fifty Shades of Grey.
The door to his bedroom is open, but I don’t linger there. It feels like snooping. A glance inside tells me he doesn’t make his bed, which is at least one glitch in his perfect home. But it’s as impersonal as every other room, all black and silver.
His gleaming bureau is uncluttered.
I hurry back to the kitchen, not wanting to be caught looking, even for a second. I put together a salad from the vegetables, taking my time with washing and chopping each item.
Who is this man, really?
The front door opens. I step to the end of the kitchen to look through the living room. I catch only a glimpse of his sweaty form before he’s down the hall. My heart hammers painfully, and I press my hand to my chest. We’re alone in his place, and unlike last night, I’m awake. And cooking.
What will happen?
My mind spins with wild scenarios, sex on the counters, falling onto the sofa. I return to that night on New Year’s Eve. He’d been passionate but controlled.
I’d still liked it.
But that’s far removed from our situation. I shouldn’t even think of it.
The timer dings, and I check on the casserole. It’s brown and bubbly, and my head swims just looking at it. Unending hunger. That’s been my pregnancy.
I reach up for the dinner plates, but between my belly and the height, even tiptoe isn’t quite enough. I stretch my fingers as high as I can.
“I’ll get those.”
Court’s low rumble sends vibrations through me. I can smell him so distinctly, all fresh herbal shampoo and masculine soap. My body hums with his nearness as he reaches up beside me to bring down the plates.
“Smells good,” he says. “I’ve never had leeks. I’m not even sure what they are.”
This makes me laugh. “You bought them!”
“I was grabbing everything that looked Lucy-like.”
“Leeks are Lucy-like?”
“They must have been.”
I turn to the fridge and pull out the extras. “These are leeks.”
“Oh! I thought those were green onions on steroids.”
I laugh again. “It’s the same family of plants. They’re easy to grow.”
“Have you? Grown them?”
“Sure. Colorado has great growing seasons. I raise potatoes, parsley, tomatoes, watermelon, radishes, beets.”
“You eat beets?”
“You don’t?”
He sniffs at the casserole. “I might eat your beets.”
I absolutely shiver at the words. If he’d been some other man, and I wasn’t in such a vulnerable, precarious situation, I would have let the sexual banter begin.
But I simply say, “That’s a great compliment for someone who hasn’t even tried my cooking yet.”
“I have faith.” He opens several drawers before finding a serving spoon. He’s clearly unfamiliar with his own kitchen. He does at least know the location of the silverware, proving he doesn’t rely on disposable plastic forks.
He fills two glasses with filtered water while I serve up the casserole and salad.
“I bought bread. It’s somewhere.” He opens the pantry and sorts through the shelves.
“It’s in the bread box.”
He leans out of the pantry. “I have a breadbox?”
I laugh again. “It’s the pretty wood box about shoulder high on the right.”
He brings the whole thing out. “Huh. I wondered what this was for. The decorator bought it.” He lifts the front panel. “It looked like a tiny roll-top desk for a cat or something.”
Now I’m giggling hard enough to get on a roll. I hold my belly, picturing a cat jotting his memoirs beside the bread box.
Court shakes his head at me and takes our plates to the table. “You laugh a lot.”
I squeak out, “You laugh too little.”
“Probably so.”
We sit down opposite each other, and everything feels so comfortable, so right, that I am momentarily disoriented, like I’ve stepped into some other life.
I wait anxiously as Court stabs a forkful of the casserole. “I didn’t ask if you were allergic to anything, or disliked it,” I say. “There are mushrooms.”
“I’m good with anything. And I didn’t ask you either.”
“You knew I was vegetarian.”
He grins, and his face is so transformed that I feel like I’ve gone underwater.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes.
I slowly slide my fork through the potatoes, waiting for his verdict.
Finally, he groans and says, “This is heavenly.”
I let out a long rush of air. Thank goodness. My appetite comes roaring forward, and I shovel a hefty forkful into my mouth. “Ooooh, yes,” I say, then blush because I’m afraid that the way it sounded is all too similar to my tone with him on New Year’s Eve. In bed. During orgasm.
He doesn’t notice. “I’m going to eat all of this and more.”
I wiggle in my seat with happiness. This is going well. It’s about time we had something good between us.
But then he asks a question that seems so simple but is anything but.
“So, how did you end up becoming a vegetarian?”
And suddenly, I’m not hungry.