Had Gen told Natasha about their fight? Was Natasha trying to patch things up between them by bringing him two steaks? Did she expect him to cook one for himself and one for Gen?
Back inside his empty house, he picked up his cell phone and reread the text Gen had sent him more than an hour ago.I’m sorryabout the other day, she’d written.Will you allow me to buy back your friendship? At present, I can offer you three purplepens, a coupon for a free iced coffee at The Grind, or a jar of rosemary olive oil that I’ve never opened.
He’d yet to respond.
For long minutes, he peered at her words, conflicted.
His logic demanded that he keep her at arm’s length. Further involvement with Genevieve Woodward was guaranteed to injure him, because she made him hungry for things that weren’t good for him.
On the other hand, Natasha’s words ripped at his conscience.“Thank you for allowing Gen to rentyour cottage. Living on your farm has been really goodfor her. ... It’s reassuring to know that you’renearby and can keep an eye on her, too. ... Sheneeds more people like you in her life. People whoactually know her, who care.”
In giving up her prescription drug habit, Gen had done something hard and brave. In deciding to distance himself from her, he’d done what was safest for him.
He wasn’t a Bible expert like she was, but he knew Scripture well enough to know that God hadn’t called him to live the safest possible life.
Restless, he went to his front porch to water his pots. Usually, he told his plants about the forecast or complimented them on their growth. Tonight, he caught himself grumbling to them angrily about Gen.
“I’ve been worried about her,”Natasha had said.“The past few days, she’s had trouble sticking to her schedule.”
With a growl, he set down the watering can and pulled out his phone.
Have you eaten dinner?he asked Gen via text, then hit send.
Almost instantly, she replied.No.
Of course she hadn’t. Taking care of herself by eating early madefar too much sense.I’ll sell you my friendship for the jar of olive oil if you’ll sell me yours fora steak dinner tonight. I’m cooking.
Sold! When should I arrive?
Thirty minutes.
Genevieve climbed Sam’s front porch steps wearing an outfit she’d debated way too hard.
She’d finally settled on the fifth ensemble she’d tried on: a long, sheer navy shirt embellished with deep pink flowers that she wore over a navy cami, gray stretch pants, flats.
She came bearing olive oil. Her mom had given her the oil and several other items as part of a housewarming basket back when she’d visited Genevieve during the throes of withdrawal. She hadn’t opened it since because she was far more inclined to use a toaster or microwave while preparing a meal than upscale olive oil.
The oil didn’t seem the right gift for a hunky single man. But it made more sense than her other offerings. Purple pens, too feminine. Coffee coupon, unnecessary because he could drink the best coffee in town for free at The Kitchen.
She paused at his door, then rang the bell. Anxiously, she wiggled her toes inside her shoes. It frightened her a little, just how important it was to her that she get their friendship back on track.
Sam answered his front door wearing clean work pants and a plaid shirt, rolled up at the wrists and hanging open over a white T-shirt.
“Hello,” she said, trying to ignore the attraction tingling at the backs of her knees.
“Hi.” He stepped back. His neutral expression gave nothing away.
She walked into the foyer and handed over the olive oil. “For you.”
“Thanks. Dinner’s almost ready.” He moved in the direction of the kitchen. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” She realized it was true. She wasn’t always in tune with her own hunger or lack thereof. She tended to eat because it was time to eat and because she knew she’d get weak and shaky if she didn’t. Or she ate because she was nervous. Or sometimes because she was bored. When she did eat because she was hungry, she wasreallyhungry. At that point, if she opened a bag of chips to tide her over, she’d end up inhaling the whole thing.
She came to a stop beside him at the counter, then watched him drizzle her olive oil on top of a bowl of dip. He smelled fantastic, bracing and crisp. His damp hair looked finger combed. “This is my riff on hummus,” he said.
“What do you mean by a riff?”
“There aren’t any chickpeas in it.” He gestured with his head toward the plate holding cut squash, zucchini, and carrots.
