Nate took the moment to explain to the girls that they needed to unpack their things from the car before getting to explore anything more on the property. Quietly, I slipped out of the room and made my way to the front door. I wasn’t a part of their family and didn’t want to encroach on any conversation that didn’t directly involve me.
Outside, I took a chance and pressed the button that would open the rear hatch of the SUV and was surprised he left it unlocked. Most people who never lived in a small town, especially Ashfield, always locked their doors out of habit. Something I learned when I worked at the bar and through the gossip grapevine.
Reaching into the trunk, I hefted the first suitcase out of the vehicle, only to have it swiped from my hands.
“I’ve got it,” Nate said as he set the luggage on the ground. Rolling my eyes, I went for another. “I said I’ve got this,” he repeated as he grabbed the second suitcase from me.
“I heard you the first time. I’m just choosing to ignore you.”
“Are you always this argumentative?” he asked as he stole a third suitcase from my grasp.
“Yes. Now let me do my job.”
“I can get our luggage. It’s fine,” the infuriating man said as he tried to tug the handle from my hand. I held firm.
“No.”
“Yes.” He yanked at the handle again, and our eyes met and held as something more than our petty argument passed between us. I wondered if his body responded to me the same way mine was responding to him. I tingled all over, and the area between my legs he so thoroughly explored during our time together awakened in reverence.
But as quickly as my body roused, he shut down.
“No,” Nate said sternly, jerking the handle once more with a force that drove me to let go.
“Fine.” Spinning around, I didn’t wait to see him stumble with the weight of the bag now in his grasp or try to figure out how he was going to get all the suitcases into the house. The stubborn man could figure it out himself.
Instead, I planned to go to the place that kept me calm and gave me a sense of peace—the kitchen.
It was nowhere close to dinnertime, but when I was frustrated or stressed out, I baked. It was something my mother taught me when she noticed I was growing anxious. Something about kneading dough and plucking fresh fruit from our garden took my mind off whatever was bothering me. In the last five years, I baked a lot.
Grabbing the flour, sugar, baking powder, and other ingredients from the oversized butler’s pantry, I laid everything out on the butcher block countertop and got to work. I no longer needed the crumpled piece of paper containing the recipe for my pie dough; it was something I could make in my sleep.
I closed my eyes and went to work, sifting the ingredients into the mixer and then mixing them to perfection. From the fridge, I pulled out some blueberries from our garden that I’d given to Autumn yesterday. A few minutes on the stove and the berries were ready to go on top of the crust in the pie tin and bake.
Within a few minutes, the sweet smell of blueberry pie enveloped the kitchen and filtered through the house. For me, it was the smell of summer. Mom always made a blueberry pie the day school let out. It would be waiting for us the second we got off the school bus, and my sisters and I couldn’t wait to dive in.
On a working farm, we usually had to wait for all the ranch hands to join us before eating anything in the house. It was something my parents stood by. Those workers were just as much a part of the family as me and my siblings were.
But on the last day of school, that blueberry pie was something special. It was just for us.
It didn’t surprise me to hear the pitter-patter of footsteps as I pulled the pie from the oven. The grin that grew on my face just as those two little girls rounded the corner was automatic. I wondered if my mom felt the same way when she saw the group of us clamoring for her desserts.
The girls climbed up on the barstools in front of the kitchen island, where I set the pie and stared adoringly at the crumbled goodness on top.
“Wow,” a deep voice stated, pulling my eyes away from the twins. I hated and loved that he changed out of his suit and now had on a pair of well-worn jeans and a snug T-shirt that stretched against the muscles of his chest. He’d filled out since I last saw him, and as someone who usually went for a leaner build, even I was impressed.
“Glad to see you lost the suit,” I told him as he joined his girls at the island.
Bashfully, he ran his hand across the back of his neck and turned his eyes downward. “Habit, I guess.” It was clear he wanted to say more, but Molly saved him as she asked when she could have a piece of the pie.
“Not until after dinner. It needs to cool down,” I explained to the trio’s growing frowns.
Something about the disappointment on all three of their faces had me caving instantly. I turned toward the cabinet and drawer closest to the sink to fetch some plates and utensils.
“Don’t ruin your appetite,” I scolded them lightheartedly as I set down the plates and forks in front of Nate and reached into the drawer of the island, grabbing a pie server. “We’re having scampi for dinner.”
“What’s scampi?” Eloise asked as her sister drooled over the slice of pie Nate set in front of her.
“It’s a noodle dish with a light buttery sauce. Do you like shrimp?”
