6. He Didn’t See Anything but Her
He Didn’t See Anything but Her
Aiden
Lola tossed a nervous smile over her shoulder as she dashed through her living room. She straightened a pink woollen throw over the threadbare patches on the couch and snatched an empty glass from the only free spot on her coffee table not covered in jigsaw puzzle pieces.
“How’d that get there?” Her laugh was strained. “I promise my place isn’t always this messy.”
I loomed like an awkward lump in the hallway, but my eyebrows crept up. There was that word again. Messy . Lola sure was house-proud.
I’d never seen someone so worried about shoes before. She’d gotten herself all flustered. She still was. Her teeth had found a new home buried in her bottom lip. I’d bet that if she’d planned my visit better, she’d have cleaned every inch of the cottage until it sparkled.
I followed her down the hallway, taking a deep breath before heading into the gloom.
Lola’s place wasn’t built for a man my size.
I was a giant smashing through a doll’s house.
My shoulders brushed close to the exposed brick walls, ancient beams so low I stooped to avoid knocking my head.
The faint tick of a clock bouncing somewhere in another room didn’t help the anxiety coiled tight in my chest. Too many dark corners and close spaces stirred the ghosts in my mind.
But the tired old bones of the cottage were cosy, thanks to Lola’s personal touches. Lots of floral. A hell of a lot of pink. Warm. Welcoming. A lot like her, really.
I snuck a peek through the open door at the end of the hall. Lola’s bedroom. It had to be. The white comforter was folded down to reveal perfectly tucked pink sheets. I gulped. I’d had a lot of dishonourable thoughts about what I’d like to do with Lola on those sheets.
“Here’s the kitchen,” she squeaked.
I looked up, but my jaw dropped. A cooking bomb had gone off. Stacks of bowls and scattered ingredients covered the wooden countertop. A floury handprint marked the fridge.
Lola’s shoulders scrunched up to her ears. “I’m a free-spirited cook.”
My laugh seemed to ease her nerves. “You don’t say.” I scanned the chaos for a free spot to leave her groceries. “Busy breakfast this morning?”
“I baked some muffins to take over to Brooke’s place.”
I plucked a lonesome blob of purple off the chopping board. “Blueberry?” I popped it into my mouth.
“The best kind.”
“My favourite is apple.”
Grinning, Lola tapped her temple. “I’m filing that information away for later.”
I caught my lips curving up as I let my hip rest against the counter, the stiffness draining from my body. She was the sweetest little thing. Innocent, somehow. “Are you going to keep baking for me, love?”
My smile vanished almost as quickly as her pale brows popped over the top of her glasses.
My heart stuttered to a stop in my chest.
Love.
I’d called her love .
Not just in my mind. Not just in the shameful moments when my hand had been an efficient but hollow substitute for her. I’d almost slipped up once before but had managed to clumsily smooth it over before she noticed. No, this time, I’d been stupid enough to call her love out loud.
I had no business thinking about Lola like that. None. I had even less business talking to her like there was ever any possibility she’d be mine.
Did she know that, too? Was that why she twisted the wooden button of her cardigan?
Unsure how to rewind the term of endearment that had threatened to spill out for weeks, I stammered, “I should, um… Yeah… Wash up…or…or something,” and headed for the sink under the window.
Stuck in the cramped kitchen with Lola, my pulse pounded like a jackhammer.
A distraction wouldn’t hurt. I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves to my elbows.
Lola was right beside me. Her tiny blue eyes were glued to my hands, examining the way I worked the soapy lather like she was collecting evidence from a crime scene.
Something about that look made me want to tug my collar away from my neck.
Lola shoved a scrunched-up tea towel at me to dry my hands before shuffling to the fridge to rummage around.
“So, who’s your egg guy?” Her voice floated from somewhere near the vegetable drawer.
Huh? “Egg guy?” I hung the tea towel back over the oven handle, arranging it—and rearranging it—to make sure the stripes were in a perfect line. I didn’t want her worrying any more than she already was.
“People talk a lot about the Hollyoak farm,” she said. “Is that where you go?”
“Nah, the eggs are from my place. I’ve got six chickens.”
“Six chickens!” She sounded impressed. “What do you do with all the eggs?” She whipped a look over her shoulder to bless me with a grin. “Other than sharing them with amateur bakers, of course.”
There was nothing amateur about Lola’s chocolate cake.
I’d demolished most of it before lunch that day.
Her cake was that damn good. I’d grumbled about sharing a slice with Harry when he’d dropped by but snatched the container away before he could help himself to a second. My cake. Made for me by my girl .
I shrugged. “Eat them.” I took some down to Ruth, but now wasn’t the time for a messed-up history lesson. “Cook with them.”
Her hands still empty, Lola flicked the fridge shut. “I can’t imagine having my own chicken coop. It must be so peaceful to have space .”
Peaceful? I guess. Isolated. Lonely… “Yeah, I’ve got a couple of acres.”
She pressed a hand to her heart and fell against the fridge. “That must be so… Wow .”
“You’d like to live in the hills?”
She bobbed her head in an eager nod.
“You think you’ll find a bigger place…if…” I swallowed heavily. “If you decide to stay?”
She didn’t hesitate before answering, “I’m staying.” There was a firmness to her voice I hadn’t heard before. “There’s nothing for me back on the mainland.”
“What about your folks?”
Lola mustered half a smile. “Bruce and Barb retired a few years back and bought themselves a Winnebago bigger than this place.”
“Are they doing the whole grey nomad thing around Australia?”
“Yeah. I think they’re somewhere in the far north at the moment. And I love my parents, but…”
“You’re not close?”
Sighing, Lola shook her head. “I shouldn’t be stuck on things that happened thirty years ago…
Life’s so short… But my mother spent most of my childhood convinced she could cure my shyness.
” She grimaced. “Let’s just say the endless weekends trapped at dancing recitals probably made me worse, not better.
Here, I have the freedom to be myself. No history.
No reminders. You probably don’t get it… ”
“No, I do. Honestly. I moved down here about eight years ago. Similar reasons.” Well, not that similar. I’d destroyed a lot of lives first. “Sometimes, you need a fresh start without other people’s expectations weighing you down.”
“Exactly. The cottage suits me for now because…” Lola slid a glance to me from the corner of her eye. “The no-car thing. But soon…maybe… A car’s on my list.”
“What else is on your list?”
She lifted a shoulder with a small smile.
“I’m kind of excited that I don’t really know yet.
I had years where I felt like every second of my life was dictated by someone else’s routine.
What they needed. Their happiness.” Another glance shifted to me, but that uneasy look disappeared with a wave of her hand and a laugh. “Sorry. That got a bit…much…”
I took a step closer. Maybe it was a step too close. “I’m interested in knowing more about you.” Preferably, everything.
“I want to know more about you, too.” She fumbled with her button again. “Like… what’s your favourite food?”
“Pasta.”
“Um…” She frowned at the closed pantry door. “I’m not sure I have any.”
“Well, we know you’ve got flour.” Grinning, I ran my fingertip through the dusty white trail sprinkled along her countertop and booped her on the nose. Her giggle just about undid me. “If you’ve still got a couple of eggs left, I can show you how to make fettuccine.”
She blinked up at me. “Seriously?” Her mouth fell open.
I nodded.
“I’d love that!” Her excited bounces over to the pantry paused mid-step. She turned to look back at me. “I don’t have a pasta maker.”
“You don’t need one. The dough’s easy. Roll it, rest it, fold it, cut it. You don’t need anything fancy.”
“Does the type of flour matter?”
“If you’re an aficionado, sure.”
“What about if you’re a very keen first-time fettuccine maker?”
“Grab your all-purpose flour.” I tidied away some of the clutter while Lola rummaged in her pantry. “This is going to be a little messy. You okay with that?”
Arching an eyebrow, she gestured around the kitchen.
I chuckled. “It’s really not that bad.”
I spritzed some cleaner and wiped a spot clear on the countertop. Lola dropped a container of flour there without much care. But she cradled the egg box I’d made her close to her chest as if it were a precious jewel.
“It really is the most darling little box,” Lola whispered, her fingertips skipping over the top. “Did you engrave all the details yourself?”
“Yeah.” It took a bloody age to carve out the tiny chicks, but the awe brightening her eyes made it worth the extra effort. “You…like it?”
“I love it. It’s probably the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”
The quiet gratitude shining in her smile almost broke me. “I’m glad you like it.” I silently vowed to make her a hundred more if she’d smile at me like that again. “Should we get started on your lesson?”
“Let’s get cracking!”
Laughing, we got to work.
Lola was a diligent student. Pushing her glasses up, she leant over to watch me make a well in the flour and crack the eggs inside.
She edged closer and closer as I walked her through each step, mixing the ingredients, sprinkling in salt, and dribbling just enough water to keep the dough from crumbling.
“You make it look so easy,” she said.
“I’ve had some practice.” I turned to give her a smile. “Want to have a go at kneading the dough?”