Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Yep,” Leighton says, a heavy admission. “It hasn’t been easy running into him those times. He drove me home too after that gardening event.”
“Where is my popcorn?” I pull my chair closer. “The coach’s daughter and one of the star players. This is going to be good.”
And it is very, very good when she tells us about her one perfect day and night with him. About the earrings too. When she’s done, I lift my glass once more. “To wonderful, fantastic, knee-weakening messes.”
“And finding our way through them,” Leighton finishes.
We all clink glasses once again, and in that small gesture, I make a silent promise to my parents that I’ll try to find the way through mine.
43
THAT GUY
Maeve
When I walk through the door a little later, something smells good. Wait—scratch that—everything smells good. Like a dog, I lift my nose and sniff the air as I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen.
Where…
Oh god.
It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
My husband is cooking, and he’s cleaning up as he goes. Is this a dream? I walk slowly into the kitchen, practically in a trance. Or maybe I’m under the spell he’s casting.
I flash back to the coffee shop with my friends, when they gave Asher their “care and feeding instructions” for me. Keep snacks handy at all times. Maeve loves her independence, so don’t crowd her—but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t cook for her.
I’d protested, saying I didn’t need anyone cooking for me. But actually? I think I like it.
A lot.
It’s strange, though, letting someone in like this. I’m not used to having someone take care of me, not since my parents. And Asher—he’s not just cooking. He’s paying attention, knowing exactly what I need without me asking.
My heart swells. New emotions, indeed.
“Hi.” It’s not the most artful opening, but it’ll have to do. He turns around, and he’s wearing an apron that says Suck This.
I crack up. “Where did you get that apron?”
He stirs something on the stove—basmati rice, maybe? Butternut squash? Possibly curry?
“I got you a shirt that says Quick-Draw Maeve. You think I can’t find an apron to amuse you?”
I stop in my tracks. He got it to amuse me. I’m not used to men doing things like this for me—really, anyone doing things like this. I’d have to go way back to when my parents were still alive, when my mom used to send me silly photos of the dog I grew up with, posed as if she were reading my mom’s books. Mom would caption them with sayings like This is good in Woof.
And now, Asher cooking for me not only makes my stomach growl, it makes my heart feel warm and squishy. Only, I don’t know what to do with this feeling, so I ask an obvious question. “Are you cooking us dinner?”
He holds up a wooden spoon, adopting an inquisitive look. “Let’s see. There’s food on the stove, dishes on the table, and wine. I’d call that dinner. It’s a butternut squash and chickpea curry. But,” he adds, his smile widening, “I also made an appetizer.”
“Stop. I love appetizers,” I say, maybe a little too excitedly. At least I don’t squeal. I give myself points for that.
He gives me a look like, Tell me something I don’t know. “Snacks, appetizers, dessert—yeah, I’ve got your number, Maeve Hartley.”
Hartley. I’ve always loved my last name. It’s the one my mother used on her books. It makes me feel close to her. But…when he calls me Mrs. Callahan, I feel something else. Something warm. I like it too—maybe more than I should. But I’m not going to point that out. Not now. That might be too much.
“Where’s this fabulous appetizer?”
“Here. It’s your favorite,” he says as he reaches for a white ceramic dish next to him, covered by a cloth napkin. He turns the heat down on the saucepan, strides over to me, and dramatically whips off the napkin.
“We can get to the bottom of the warm nut conspiracy.”
The hair on my arms stand on end. “You made warm nuts,” I say, like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
Honestly, I think it is.
He runs his thumb over my wrist, and the heat of his touch travels all the way to my core. “What my wife wants, she gets.”
What I want...is him.
“What did you put in this?” I ask, taking another bite, savoring the rich flavors.
“Tofu, cilantro, butternut squash, and chickpeas,” he says.
It’s making my taste buds dance. “How did you know I’d like it?”
“You like chai lattes. You like hot sauce. You enjoy interesting dishes, variety, the unpredictable. But you also like cilantro, and Carlos grows it, so I picked some up from him earlier today,” he says with a knowing grin, gesturing to the herb I’m a little obsessed with.
In short—he’s paid attention. To me. He made the effort. For me. This is all so new. So foreign. “No one’s ever cooked for me before,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “I mean…in a relationship—” Crap. We’re not in a real relationship. I shouldn’t use that word. “I mean in a—”