There’s such a long pause I’m tempted to crack open my eyes.
“Necessity,” he finally says, but I get the impression I could send a search party into that one word and uncover a world of meaning. “And Tommy. He suggested opening a restaurant . . . and when I finally came around to it . . . I was looking for plots where we could build it, and then I rediscovered the greenhouse. Felt like the right thing to do.”
“And it was the comfortable choice.” I pat my hand against the outside of the warm truck door.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that you like your new experiences wrapped in a familiar, comfy old quilt. You know? To keep your sentimental squishy heart warm and safe.”
He makes a wincing noise. “Cool. That sounds sexy.”
I laugh, not at all expecting him to say that. “Is sexy your goal?”
“Of course sexy is the goal. It’s everyone’s goal. If they say it isn’t, they’re lying.”
“Fair enough,” I reply because confessing I found him very sexy in his towel isn’t an option.
I sit patiently while James comes around to open my door and help me out. His truck is high off the ground, so he wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me to the ground.
And apparently I’m now collecting new experiences with James like it’s my latest obsessive hobby. See him mostly naked.Check.Admire the tone of his voice when my eyes are closed.Check.Know what it’s like to have my body pressed against his.Check.
This feels dangerously close to kindling a crush, which is why I absolutely have to get a handle on this and stop looking at him with googly eyes.IT’S JAMES,the harmonious choir bellows in my mind.
My normal mode for curing infatuation is to ask the man, verypolitely, to bang my brains out. After that, I’m good to go and rarely think of him again. But I’m not operating in that mode anymore. If I want to know what’s below the surface of this life, I have to quit floating on the top.
So these days I’m just a celibate little horndog looking for my happily-ever-after. And getting involved with James would be one complicated mistake.
James gently clasps my shoulders and guides me ten steps. “Okay. You can open your eyes.”
I do and have to blink to make sure I’m seeing the world correctly.
“The door is yellow.” I process this another minute, then, when I look at him and see his smile, I clutch his arm in a desperate hold. “James. The door is yellow!”
“Do you like it?” His tone implies optimism, but his expression is cautious.
“It’s yellow!” I say, like,Duh, of course I like it.
He nods toward the chef’s quarters, which turns out is a tiny, adorable house. “Go take a look.”
I don’t need to be told twice. But once inside, I freeze.
Oh no.Oh boy.That warm tide of emotions rises behind my eyes, because this . . .is perfect.It’s about eight hundred square feet of charming decadence.
“James.” I beam, pure awe ringing in my tone. “This is . . . an actual cottage.”
It’s furnished, sun-drenched, and darling. It is a country Pinterest board come to life.
There are gingham-print blue-and-white drapes hanging over the little sink window. A soft ruffle accent pillow on the bed. And . . . wait, is that my old bed?
James leans a shoulder against the frame of the open door likehe’s not totally sure if he should come in or not. I understand the feeling.
I’ve never once stepped foot in James’s bedroom either. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to explore his room when I was a teenager. I tried once while he was out of the house. I had been baking downstairs with Ruth and she asked me to run upstairs and grab a fresh hand towel from the hall linen closet.
To this day I can remember taking a single look at James’s open door and feeling this burning desire to go inside. To poke around where I shouldn’t. To see what kind of deodorant he used. Did he throw his dirty clothes on the floor or put them in a hamper?
Crush stuff.
But Tommy—who I didn’t realize was home—caught me before I could take a single step inside and I had to make up an excuse about thinking it was his room. The lie wasn’t hard to come up with because I did also have a crush on Tommy. But it felt different. One of those cute, shallow infatuations that had more to do with what it would be like if he kissed me than wanting to know what he was thinking.
