Chapter 25
The aroma of fresh-baked bread drifted through the autumn evening, mixing with woodsmoke from someone’s chimney and the last lingering sweetness of late-blooming roses.
Rebecca paused on the front step of Cort’s house, holding the bottle of wine she’d brought and the pie she had picked up at the market. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.
The door opened, and Cort appeared in the doorway. He was wearing dark jeans and a soft gray Henley, flour dusting his forearms. His hair was slightly mussed, and he had that focused, slightly frazzled look of someone in the middle of cooking.
“Perfect timing,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw her. “I was just pulling the bread out of the oven.”
“It smells amazing,” Rebecca said, stepping inside. “Like being at Sabrina’s. I didn’t know you baked.”
“Another Pip-inspired hobby,” Cort said with a slightly embarrassed grin, taking her coat.
“He asked Mr. Patel for some of his sourdough starter and we ended up with what feels like a pet. Almost as much work as the giant pumpkin.” He pointed out the window.
“Which is doing fine, by the way. We can go out and check on it later if you want.” He led her toward the kitchen, and Rebecca took in the warm wood counters, the open shelving displaying mismatched dishes, the small dining table set for two with navy pottery plates.
She approached the table to look at the plates more closely. “I love these. Where did you get them?”
He smiled that shy smile she was growing used to, and she could tell he was just about to reveal yet another charming talent. “In the spring, I decided to take a pottery-making class on the nights Pip was with his mom. Those were supposed to be bowls.”
She laughed. “Well, I like them the way they are. Very you. They’re perfect in here. And it smells so good. Is there anything you can’t do?”
He moved to the stove, where a pot of water was boiling and another pan held sizzling strips of sun-dried tomatoes. “I’m making carbonara. One of my only specialties. I mastered it at YouTube University.”
Rebecca laughed. “I love that.”
“This is a vegetarian version, with sun-dried tomatoes instead of bacon.” Cort added pasta to the pot of water boiling on the stove, salted it, then turned back to her. “Because Pip and I recently read Charlotte’s Web.”
Rebecca laughed. “I get it. Sabrina and I didn’t eat pork for years after reading that. I still hardly do. All I can hear is ‘Some Pig’ in my head if I ever reach for a slice of bacon.”
Cort shook his head and laughed, too. “Same here. Tough to give up BLTs, but I’m making it work.” He examined the bottle she had brought, a dry Riesling from Niagara, then opened it as she settled onto a kitchen island stool and accepted the wineglass he handed her.
As Cort moved around the kitchen, Rebecca found herself studying the details of his life: the grocery list stuck to the refrigerator, the collection of coffee mugs that suggested years of gifts from his son, saying things like “World’s Best Dad” or with the Superman symbol, but with the word “Superdad” instead.
There was also a small jar on the counter labeled “TOOTHLESS” in colorful markers.
“Toothless?” she asked, pointing to the jar.
“Our sourdough starter. Pip named him. From How to Train Your Dragon, possibly not a movie you’re familiar with if you don’t spend time with eight-year-olds, but it’s his favorite.
We have to feed Toothless every day or he’ll die, so here we are, a few years later, still keeping a sourdough starter alive.
” As he spoke, Cort dropped eggs into a mixing bowl, whisked them, then added cheese, salt, and pepper.
He had the sleeves of his Henley rolled up, and Rebecca found herself mesmerized by his muscled forearms. She bit her lip—then realized Cort was watching her.
“You look deep in thought,” he said. “Although with you, that’s normal. What’s on your mind?”
“Honestly?” she said. “How sexy it is watching you cook.” Then she laughed. But he had put down the whisk, his expression grown serious. He stepped toward her.
“Oh, yeah?” he said, rounding the kitchen island and sliding her off the stool, his hands on her hips.
“Well, that’s interesting, because I was just thinking how sexy it was to be watching you watching me cook, so we’re on the same page here.
And I was also thinking that I hadn’t kissed you hello yet, which is a drastic oversight on my part. ”
“I didn’t want to distract you too much,” she murmured as his lips met hers.
“Oh, please, distract away.”
They barely noticed when the pot of water on the stove began to boil over.
Reluctantly, Cort pulled away from her and went back to his cooking, draining the pasta, then combining it with the sun-dried tomatoes and the egg mixture, tossing everything together with a practiced ease.
He plated the pasta, then scattered it with more grated Parmesan and fresh parsley.
“Grab the wine and follow me,” he said, carrying the plates to the table. There were fresh flowers in a mason jar on it, and Rebecca found herself unexpectedly touched by this.
“This is nice,” she said, smiling at him as he settled in across the table from her.
“It is, isn’t it?” He picked up his wineglass and clinked it gently against hers. “It just feels so…easy. I didn’t think it would ever be this way, with us.”
She sipped her wine and nodded. “We were so tortured about it, for so long.”
“So angsty,” he agreed, reaching for her hand. “But then we grew up. And now, here we are. I’m happy,” he said simply.
“I’m happy, too,” she said, and knew she meant it. “I don’t think I’ve actually been happy for a really long time.” She squeezed his fingers. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “And this—it looks so good.”
The pasta was perfectly creamy, studded with sun-dried tomatoes and fresh herbs.
“Hope it tastes as good as it looks,” Cort said.
Rebecca took a bite and closed her eyes briefly. “It’s perfect.”
“Really?” His relief was endearing.
He broke off a piece of the sourdough bread and handed it to her. “Try this, too. I think it might be some of Toothless’s finest work.”
The bread was delicious—crusty on the outside, tender and tangy on the inside, still warm from the oven.
Rebecca had a sudden flash of memory: her grandmother’s kitchen, the smell of baking bread on Sunday mornings, the way Lenore would tear off pieces while it was still warm and they would eat them with butter and honey.
“You okay?” Cort asked gently, and she realized she’d gone quiet.
“Sorry, just…this reminds me of my grandmother. She used to bake bread on Sundays.” Rebecca smiled. “She would have loved that you named your sourdough starter after a dragon.”
“Oh, she knew about Toothless,” he said with a laugh. “Of course I had to share my bread baking with Lenore, who had baked so much for me in the past. Pip and I often brought over a loaf to her, and she was always very complimentary.”
“You did?” Rebecca felt a lump rise to her throat and put down her bread. “Cort, that’s…just so kind of you.”
“Your grannie was an easy person to be kind to. And Pip adored her.”
“Smart little boy.”
“He is. Sometimes I think he’s more mature than I am. He’s definitely smarter.” Cort passed her the bread basket. “The divorce was hard on him, but he handled it better than either Melanie or I did at first. Just rolled with it, you know? Kids are resilient.”
“Sometimes,” Rebecca said, deep in thought. “Some of us spend years trying to figure out how to roll with things.”
Cort’s eyes met hers across the table. “Is that what you’re doing now? Trying to figure out how to roll with things?”
Rebecca considered the question. “Maybe. I spent so many years planning everything, controlling everything. Making sure I had the right job, the right life. And then Lenore died, and suddenly none of it felt right anymore.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m sitting in your kitchen eating the best carbonara I’ve ever had—Wilbur-free—and I can’t remember the last time I felt this…” She searched for the word, then settled on it. “Happy,” she said.
“I’m glad you’re happy, Becca.” But there was something in his eyes she couldn’t read, and for a moment, he looked away.
Then he broke off more bread, slathered it with butter, and joy lit his eyes, too.
They chatted for the rest of the meal, then moved to the living room with their wineglasses and plates of the pie she had brought.
Rebecca looked around at the framed pictures on the side table—Cort and Pip hiking, building snowmen, reading together on this same couch. In every photo, they looked happy, complete. It made her smile.
“You’ve got that look again,” he said. He had put down his plate and moved closer, his fingers moving in slow circles on her thigh, almost absent-mindedly. Meanwhile, it was flooding her system with tingles and sparks.
“The deep-thinking one? Well, I am thinking about something.”
He was leaning in, his lips close to hers. “What are you thinking about?”
Now their lips were touching. “I have this contractor,” she said. “Every day when he comes into work, I find myself completely distracted.”
He was nibbling on her lower lip now, and she could barely think or speak.
“Sounds kind of sexy,” he said. “If I were working for someone who looked like you, I don’t think I’d be able to focus on work, either.
” His hand was drifting up her waist now, under her shirt, and their kissing grew more intense.
She wanted more of him. It was exactly what she wanted.
His fingers slid under her bra, a thumb grazed over her nipple, and she shivered.
But then she pulled away. “Sorry,” he began. “Was that too—”
She stood and reached for his hands, pulled him off the couch. “No, it wasn’t too much. In fact, it wasn’t enough. I was thinking that you hadn’t given me the full tour of your house, yet, though. There’s one room I would specifically like to see…”
His crooked grin was sexier than usual as he led her from the living room and down the hall, saying, “What a complete oversight. No home tour is complete without a very thorough look at the bedroom…”