Ominous music plays in the faint part of my brain that’s still registering reality, and then a woman’s voice comes over the speaker.He swore to protect her heart, but he stabbed it thirty-seven times. This is Kill Death Do Us Part, the murder podcast about those times when it would have been better to have never loved at all.
I pull away, quirking an eyebrow. “Are you about to murder me? Because if you are, this is a very elaborate murder plot.”
“Oh, my god.” Emy shoots her head out of an upstairs window. “I’m so sorry. Please carry on as you were.”
Jack waves up to the window. “Not the type of murder I had in mind tonight.La petite mortlater, maybe.” He winks.
“One kiss, and suddenly you’re so cheeky.”
“To be fair, it was one hell of a kiss.” He exhales before pressing his forehead against mine. “Hi.”
“Oh, had we not said that yet?” A euphoric giggle bubbles out of my chest.
He lays another soft, far more chaste kiss on my lips and then tugs on my hand to walk me to our dining arrangement.
He holds the door open, and I slip onto our screened porch as he flicks something on his phone. For the fifty-thousandth time today, the center for the Brawling Badgers, my Wickham, leaves me speechless. More string lights than I purchased cover every inch of the porch, including the ceiling, making it feel like we’re under a canopy of fallen stars. The table is set with antique dinner plates and glasses and a lace tablecloth that doesn’t look new, but none of it is ours. An eclectic collection of opalescent hobnail vases are filled with fresh-cut farm flowers, full of blooms in pink, orange, and purple. Between each vase rests a white candlestick and crystal holder.
On a cake platter, meat pie from Chez Labranche is adorned with a swig of rosemary, two bowls of poutine sandwiching each side, and what looks like the Elizabeth Beignets from Cup of Joe’s with all the caramel sauce on a serving dish below.
“You did all this? For me?”
“Lucy helped,” he says, walking over to the table and lighting the candles. “She told me very seriously that she’s wicked into cottagecore.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Jack pulls out my seat, gesturing for me to sit down, and I accept it with a smile. My legs wobble, having turned to Jello. Hopefully my ridiculously poofy skirt obscures the shake enough that Jack doesn’t notice.
“Hi,” I manage.
“Hello,” he says, sitting next to me. “Happy Birthday.”
My practical side wants to hug those two words tight to my chest. I remind myself that Jack is a good friend and doing something special for me because he knows this would be a tough birthday. I shouldn’t let myself get lost in the fantasy of a big gesture, but—maybe the practical side of me is the one being foolish.
If the only information I had was how Jack kisses me—like a man starved—then I would say he has feelings for me—strong ones. It’s getting harder to deny myself the hope that something more is passing between us.
“Before we eat, I was hoping we might continue our conversation from this morning.” Jack folds his hands on the table, and I find it difficult to meet his eyes. The conversation where I looked like a total stalker?
No, thank you. Pass the poutine, please.
“Do we have to?”
He nods, and a smile tugs on his lips. “I think we should clarify a few things between us.”
“Right. Sure. Well, clarify away.” I fidget in my seat, unable to meet his eyes. Despite the lights twinkling overhead, and his lips crashing down on mine with obvious hunger, I can’t shake the feeling of anticipation for a beautiful letdown.
“I wasn’t bringing up our friendship because I thought you had feelings for me at the orchard and wanted you to stop.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. Not even close.” Jack grabs my right hand. His thumb gently caresses a small freckle on the top. “Dessy, I want our friendship to grow into something more—and I was hoping maybe you want the same thing.”
“To bemorethan friends?” I blink. Am I hearing this correctly? There’s no way I could misinterpret what he’s saying, right?
“Yes.”
“What if it ruins what we have already?”
“I’ve been worried about that, too. That’s why I’ve kept my feelings suppressed for so long, but I can’t hold them in any longer. I’ve tried—and I was doing okay as long as I thought I didn’t have a shot in hell with you. But Aulie, if you feel even an ounce of what I do, I think risking our friendship is worth exploring what’s between us. It’s up to you. If you don’t see it that way, one word from you will silence me on the issue.”
