“Love you, bestie,” she says. “Be safe.”
“Love you, too. Bye.” I say, disconnecting the phone as I pull into my spot.
CHAPTER 6
FROST
“Keep it cool, man. It’s only dinner. Nothing more, nothing less,” I tell myself as I pull into the parking space next to Hope.
As soon as I drop the kickstand, I kick my leg over to dismount my bike and rush to her driver’s side door to open it for her. She looks up at me in shock and then studies me like I’m an abnormality she’s trying to figure out.
“No man’s ever opened the door for me before,” she says softly, grabbing her things.
“Then you’re hanging out with the wrong men, darlin’.” I hold my hand out and slowly pull her from her seat.
A blush creeps up the side of her neck, and I mentally slap myself to keep from leaning in and nibbling on her tender flesh. Hope turns toward her building, and I trail behind her. She lives in a well-populated area, and her apartment complex looks relatively new. Neighbors exiting the unit hold open the door and greet us as we pass. We reach her apartment, and I shift on my feet while she unlocks it.
Why the fuck am I so nervous?
As soon as Hope opens her door, nostalgia smacks me in the face. Her home is inviting, warm, and filled with bright colorsand eclectic taste. Her living room opens right up to a kitchen with an island separating the two spaces. Bookshelves line her walls, and a television sits centered between the tallest ones. A blue sofa faces the make-shift entertainment center, complete with a barrage of colorful pillows and a bright purple blanket. Down the hall are several doors, which I assume are bedrooms and a bathroom.
“Make yourself at home,” she calls as she heads for one of the rooms. “I’m gonna go put my stuff away real quick.”
I continue to stand inside the foyer, so I don’t chase after her and throw her over my shoulder like a caveman.
Get a fucking grip, man.
Only a few minutes pass before Hope strides back down the hall to the kitchen, pulling her hair up as she moves. A few strands fall again, brushing her cheek. She huffs to blow them away, but they barely move before landing right back where they were to begin with. Hope’s too damn cute.
“You can sit,” she says, gesturing to the stool by the counter. “Unless you want to help. Fair warning, though, I’m picky.”
I take the stool. Right now, having distance between us is safer. “I’ll just observe.”
Her lips quirk. “Creepy, but okay.”
Hope grabs a bunch of different ingredients out of her refrigerator and cupboards. Once she has everything she needs, she turns to the stove, places a pot on top, and begins to crack open the garlic, smashing each clove with the side of her knife. After she finishes the garlic, she begins dicing the onion. Hope tosses both into the olive oil, which is already warming in the pan. The sizzle is immediate, filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering scent that wraps around me like a memory.
“Come on, Deacon,” Mom calls. “You can help me chop the herbs and vegetables.”
“Mom, it’s Frost, now.” I cross my arms over my chest even as a smile tugs on the corner of my mouth.
Mom drops her knife, marches over to me, and jabs her finger into my chest.
Here it comes.
“Listen to me, Deacon Allen Stone,” she huffs. “I am your mother, and I will use the name I gave you when you came into this world. I carried you for nine months and went thro?—”
“Through sixteen hours of labor without pain medication,” I finish. “I know the story, Mom. I’m just screwing with you.”
She wraps her arms around my middle. “And I’d do it all again. You and your sister were the best gifts your father ever gave me.”
The sound of a can opener cuts through the past, bringing the here and now back into focus. Hope drops in several diced tomatoes, followed by tomato sauce. Next, she tears fresh basil which adds a sweet fragrance to the already delicious aroma. She opens a bottle of red wine and pours a splash straight into the pot. Then she pours a glass for herself.
“Would you like a glass or a beer?” she offers.
“Beer, please.”
Hope opens the fridge and digs inside. “Here,” she says, handing me a bottle. “It’s not fancy, but it’s cold.”
