“Pine trees. Definitely pine trees.” I position the shape at an angle. “See? Perfect evergreen silhouette.”
“You’re impossible.” But she’s smiling as she says it, and when our hips bump as we work around each other, neither of us moves away.
“This is nice,” I say, surprising myself.
“What is?”
“This. Your house. It feels…” I search for the right word. “Lived in.”
Eliza glances around her kitchen, taking in mismatched everything and flour handprints on cabinet doors. “It’s kind of a mess.”
“It’s perfect.” Everything in my apartment matches and looks like it came from a catalog. This kitchen looks like people cook here, live here. “My place feels like a hotel room.”
“Probably a really nice hotel room.”
“Probably. But this feels like a home.”
Something shifts in her expression, softer than I’ve seen before. “Help me clean up?”
I nod and walk to the sink as Eliza slides pans of cookies into her massive oven to bake. I’m elbow-deep in soapy water when she turns to dust off her hands, staring.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re washing dishes.”
“Did you expect me to leave them for you?”
“Honestly? Yeah.” She leans against the counter. “Most guys I know think kitchen cleanup happens by magic.”
“My parents have household staff,” I admit, scrubbing a mixing bowl. “But I also told you I can follow instructions.”
“I guess you meant that.”
I rinse a bowl and hand it to her. “I definitely did.”
Eliza’s quiet for a moment, methodically drying the bowl. “What made you start a wonky tree business? Since you’re such a rule follower…”
I drain the sink and turn to face her. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I finished my master’s program and didn’t like most of the options I saw in bioengineering.” I shrug. “It just sort of happened.”
Eliza’s face brightens as she snaps a lid onto a metal tin full of amazing cookies. “That’s how I got into urban goat work.” She laughs. “Definitely not something I wrote as a life goal in elementary school.”
I lean to glance at the other pans of perfect cookies. “Turned out okay, though. Right?”
She nods, and we’re both quiet as the Sinatra record finishes. I’ve lost track of how many times we listened through. The air is warm and thick with the scent of butter and vanilla. Eliza’s kitchen is a safe little incubator.
For some reason, amidst the cozy comfort, I blurt, “My father threatened to make sure no serious investor in Pittsburgh will touch my business if I don’t join Nicholas Industries.”
Her eyes flash with anger. “He can do that?”
“He thinks he can. Charles Nicholas has a long memory and an extensive network.” The words taste bitter. “He’s probably right.”
“That’s horseshit.” Eliza tosses a dishtowel onto the counter with more force than necessary. “Your trees are brilliant. Anyone with half a brain can see the potential.”
“Not brilliant enough for anyone to risk losing a contract with Nicholas Industries.”
“What about investors outside of Pittsburgh? Or finding people who don’t give a damn what your father thinks? My sisters know people.” She steps close enough that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes. “You can’t let him win.”
The conviction in her voice does something to my chest, makes it tight and warm simultaneously. “You really believe that?”
