He grimaces, holding the answer between his teeth a second longer. “Because the construction crew wasn’t going to be able to get it done before you needed it.”
My skin is tingling. “Were they behind schedule or something?”
“Not exactly.”
I close my eyes. “Was it not part of the original plans?” He’s silent. “James . . . is this actually the chef’s cottage . . . or is itmycottage?”
The heavy breath he drags in says it all. “Should any other chef take the position after you . . . a chef’s quarters will not be included in the job.”
“James!” I’m shaking. “You shouldn’t have done this for me!”
“You were going to need a place to stay! And you’d already done me a huge favor by coming home for this job.” He shrugs, shoulders tugging against his T-shirt. “I wanted you to have somewhere to stay without adding more to your plate.”
At this news, all I can do is drop my face into my hands and whimper, “Jamessssss.”
“What am I missing?”
“So much. Oh my god. I do not deserve all this. You need to fire me right now and get someone else.”
“I won’t be doing that.”
I pop my head up. “Everyone thinks I’m going to screw up or get bored and leave! And for good reason! You should think this too. I didn’t even . . .” I pause and pivot away from that subject. “The panic attack in the kitchen . . . it’s not a rare occurrence. It’s sort of the norm for me lately, in fact. It’s part of why . . .” I can’t get it out. I need to, but I can’t say the words.
James, noticing the truth is lodged somewhere in my windpipe, bumps the back of my hand with his knuckles. “How about a truth for a truth?”
I don’t want to be lured by this manipulation—but I am. “Fine. You first.”
“I’ve been smoking on and off since high school. I used to smoke a lot back then and went through great pains to cover it up.I picked up the habit from my dad, even though he does not know I ever saw him smoke.”
“No way—Martin Huxley does not smoke!” I say, picturing the happy, salt-and-pepper-haired, six-foot-tall and fit man who refused to use synthetic pesticides on the farm’s produce because it wasn’t healthy. “He’s obsessed with kombucha. You can’t be intoboth.”
James laughs. “He doesn’t smoke anymore. He gave it up like fifteen years ago when he had a lung cancer scare that turned out to be nothing. It scared me too, so I rarely smoke anymore. Only when I’m under a lot of stress and I can’t sleep.” His eyes, so dark in the night, slide to me. “You’re the only person to ever catch me.”
Well, this is an interesting revelation. James, the most upstanding man I’ve ever known, has a deep dark secret. I’m suddenly overcome with desire to see if he has more.
“I smelled it on you.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “At the bar the other night. But I thought for sure it couldn’t be you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not the type to stress smoke.”
This seems to amuse him. He leans back, resting his elbows on the stair behind him. “And what type am I?”
“You’re stable. You’re dependable. Wholesome. What you see is what you get.”
“What you just described is an oak table.”
“Yes, exactly!” I say, but then I see his disappointed expression. “. . . No. Wait. You make that sound bad.”
“You,” he says around a chuckle, “make that sound bad. God, excuse me, I have to go cover myself in tattoos and rob a bank before the Golden Girls ask me to come live with them.” He stands, slapping his hat on his head once again.
I grab his hand. It’s big and calloused and unlike any hand I’ve ever held before.
“I didn’t mean it negatively. I meant it . . . opposite of negative.” I stand too and forget to let go of his hand. “Can I start over? I messed that up.” Apparently, I’m only capable of telling James he’s either a sexpot or a docile grandpa. I need to get my balance.
His eyes track over my face. “Okay, but only because I’m dependable and don’t want to let you down.”
I laugh and drag him with me up the stairs. “Come inside. I’m going to explain while showing you a way to relieve stress that’s even better than smoking.”
