“No. The chair’s yours.” He brushed off the chair for her, then went back inside and emerged with her toast.
He wasn’t a warm or open personality type, so she didn’t quite know what to do with this evidence of his gallantry. Should she file it under quirks: occasional gallantry? Or under character: hidden gallantry?
He sat on the ottoman, leaned his shoulder blades against the house, and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee.
The days were long in August, and the sun would linger foranother hour yet. Genevieve let the warmth soak into her skin and savored the scent of distant woodsmoke and summer grass.
Short, hardy shrubs with pale green leaves lined the base of the cottage, interrupted only by one ambitious vine of morning glory. The vine framed the window in front of her desk, then followed the building’s roofline up toward its central point. Early tomorrow, its sky-blue petals would open to celebrate another morning.
One minute drifted into the next as she drank tea and listened to the buzz of a bee, whispering leaves, a car coasting along the road.
Usually she felt compelled to fill silence with words. But not this time. Selfishly, she wanted to trap this moment in a mason jar.
“You’ve made it a whole week without Oxy,” he said.
“Yes.”
He rolled his head toward her. His baseball cap’s brim slanted shadow over a section of his face. Darker green ringed the pale, mellow green of his irises. “You’ve done well so far.”
She gave him a look of mock amazement. “Did you just compliment me?”
“No.”
“Because it kind of sounded like a compliment.”
“If so, it came out of my mouth wrong.”
“You did well taking care of me,” she told him.
“Did you just compliment me?”
“No.”
“Because it kind of sounded like a compliment.”
“If so, it came out of my mouth wrong.” She smiled and took a bite of toast. Delicious. The crisp bread, butter, and tangy raspberry jam had all come from him in yesterday’s delivery, wrapped in containers labeledThe Kitchen.
Her stomach didn’t revolt. Her taste buds approved.
“Time to schedule an appointment with a psychologist,” he commented.
Man, he really knew how to squish the levity out of a conversation.
“Do you have one in mind?” he asked.
“Yes. Dr. Quinley counseled me for a few years back when I was in middle school. I trust her.”
“How soon do you think she can fit you in?”
“She likes me. So I’m guessing she’ll be able to squeeze me in before the end of the week.”
“Is she certified in addiction treatment?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulled out his phone and appeared to run a search on Dr. Quinley.
“Back when we hashed out our agreement,” she pointed out in a friendly tone, “you didn’t specify that the psychologist had to be certified in addiction treatment.”
