Chapter 46
MAGGIE
I'm making pesto because it's the one thing I can't ruin.
Basil from the bed by the back step, garlic, olive oil, parmesan, the lot of it in the blender.
There's nothing to time, nothing to burn, nothing that can go wrong and tell Sloane I've lost my mind over her.
I went in early and left Luis and Sloane to finish up outside.
Really I just needed twenty minutes away from her.
I didn't want to be presumptuous about the towel comment, so I had a quick shower and put on my one good linen shirt and clean denim shorts. Nothing too fancy but I didn't want Luis to notice I'd dressed up and ask questions.
I'm toasting pine nuts in the dry pan to scatter over the top and there's a tomato salad already done and sitting under a cloth. The pasta will go in the water at the last minute. It was the simplest thing I could think of.
The pine nuts are starting to color, so I shake the pan. There's a knock on the doorframe and I nearly drop it.
"Just me." Luis sticks his head in, cap in his hand. "I'm heading off." He sniffs the air and looks at the pan. "Smells good. You're cooking."
"I'm tired. Thought I'd make something proper and have an early night with a book in bed."
"Right," he says. "Early night." He puts his cap on. "Enjoy your book, then. Night, Maggie."
"Night, Luis."
He goes and I listen to his truck start. Then the door opens and Sloane comes in.
She's got dirt up both forearms, hair coming loose. "Hey," she says. "Luis just left."
"I know. He came to say goodbye." I hesitate. "So… here we are."
"Yeah." Sloane leans against the doorpost. "You look nice." She smiles. "And it smells delicious. Can I help?"
"No, I've got it." I turn off the heat under the pine nuts before they catch. "Go shower. There's a big towel for you on the rail." I wink. "I've already had a shower, so I'll behave."
"Hm." She holds my eyes. "I was hoping you wouldn't."
Sloane doesn't move right away. She stays in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching me, and I'm aware of every second she's there. I could cross the distance between us and kiss her. We've already made out twice so what's stopping me and why am I overthinking everything?
"What?" I ask, noting she still hasn't taken her eyes off me.
"Nothing." She tilts her head, her lips pulling into a flirtatious smile. "Just enjoying the view. You're cute when you're nervous." Then she pushes off the doorframe and goes. I hear her on the stairs, and then the pipes knock as the water comes on.
I carry the plates and cutlery out to the porch while she's up there. The worst of the heat has lifted and there’s a pleasant breeze.
My kitchen is a mess, so this will have to do.
I take the laundry down off the rail, shove the work boots under the bench, and lay two places.
The one bedsheet I leave hanging, pegged at the far end, so it screens the table from the drive but leaves the view of the paddock open.
After Ruthie's Buick rolled up mid-kiss last night, I'm not taking any chances.
Back in the kitchen, I put the pasta in the pan with boiling water, grab the wine, a jug of ice water, and the little jar of sweet peas from the table for decoration.
The screen door opens behind me, and I turn around.
Sloane's barefoot in a sundress — short, pale yellow, thin straps — with her hair down and dry and nothing on her face. Just clean skin gone golden from weeks of sun.
I forget, briefly, what I was doing.
"Better?" she says.
"You look beautiful." My voice comes out level, which is a small miracle.
"Thank you." She smiles shyly, comes to the table and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks at the two places, the wine, the flowers. "So," she says, not quite meeting my eye. "Is this — Is this a date?" The boldness from the kitchen has vanished and she's twisting the hem of her dress.
I'm no better than she is, because I feel my face go red and have to laugh at the pair of us. "Yeah." I pull out her chair. "It's a date."
"Then this is officially my first date with a woman."
"Is it strange?" I ask, my hands lingering on the back of her chair.
"A little." She tips her head back to look up at me. "Mostly I just can't believe it took me twenty-eight years to get here."
"No pressure on me, then," I joke, easing her chair in. "Decades of buildup and all I've got is pasta behind a bedsheet."
Sloane smiles. "Honestly? It beats every fancy restaurant I've been dragged to. You cooked for me. That's so sweet."
"I'm no chef," I say, heading inside. "I can make about ten things."
"That's ten more than me," she calls after me.
Her laugh carries through the screen door while I drain the pasta and stir the pesto through it. I plate everything up, scatter the pine nuts over the top of the pasta, grind some pepper on, and carry it out along with the salad.
Sloane pours the wine while I plate a generous portion for her.
"I'm actually really hungry. I haven't been able to eat for days," she says, her hand going to her stomach. "It's like there's something turning over in there and it won't stop."
I know the feeling. The same restlessness has been living under my ribs too. "You say that like you've never felt butterflies before," I say sitting across from her.
"I haven't." She holds my gaze, and her bare foot slides against my shin under the table. "Not once."