I look at the sofa again and frown. “It’s…not very…” When I turn my head back in her direction, I get the distinct feeling I’m about to say the wrong thing, because she’s opening and closing cupboard doors but doing it very aggressively. Slamming them shut is a better word than closing. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes a spatula and cuts off a large piece of whatever casserole she made, places it into a plastic container, slams a lid on it, and holds it out to me. “There. Dinner. To go.”
“To go?” Shit. What the hell did I say? I look over at the sofa again. And that’s when I realize what happened. That hideous furniture means something to her. “Maggy. I’m—”
“You need to go.I’msupposed to be resting, Nate.”
“I’m sorry….” I look up at her eyes and I’d swear they’re glassier than they were a few minutes ago. “I didn’t mean to….” Hell, I didn’t even say what was actually on my mind.
“Just go home, Nate.” I can tell by her voice that she’s tired. Probably tired of me. I get that. Hell,I’mtired of me.
“Right.” Reaching over, I pick up the container that’s hot to the touch. “I’ll take the ladder back downstairs as I go.”
“Thank you.”
16
Maggy
As soon asthe door is shut, I lean back on it. And sigh. That man. Thatjerk. I look over at Mom’s couch and wince. He’s right. It’s ugly, but there’s more to life than furniture. I wouldn’t trade that couch or chair for the best, most expensive furniture in the world. Because Mom and I used to read together on that couch. We’d have long talks sitting there. And we’d have movie nights on that sofa. She’d make popcorn while I picked the movie. We’d snuggle with Grandma’s old afghan and watch comedies, romances, mysteries, and in October, horror movies. It was our thing. One of them, anyway. Even while she was sick, we carried on with our movie nights right there onthatsofa.
So, fuck Nate Black and his fancy-ass furniture.
I’ll take mine over his any day.
“Stupid tears.” I swipe at my cheek and make my way back into the kitchen. I made a lasagna using no-boil noodles, so it took a lot less time than traditional pasta. I hadn’t realized I was doubling my recipe until I grabbed my larger baking dish. Right then, I knew I was going to feed the big jerk.
Back in my kitchen, I plate myself some lasagna and make my way over to the couch. I have to arrange some pillows beneath me, because there’s a spring or two that has found a way through the padding. “I’ll need to see if I can fix it.” I’ve done it before with a pair of pliers. All I need to do is bend them around a little bit. It’s not a big deal.
Taking a bite of my food, I moan at the flavor and the fact that I’ve actually got food to eat. It reminds me of my stupid mistake about the grocery delivery. Nate was right, I’m not supposed to be lifting stuff. At least that’s what Dr. Martin said. But I knew if I didn’t grab all the bags and take them inside, someone would grab the bags left behind. It’s just how it is in a big city. Everyone knows that.
Nate was also right about me finding a different grocery store—one that will bring them up to my door. There are several stores nearby, and I’ll bet there’s one that will carry them all the way up for me. Taking another bite, I lean back and sigh. I’m exhausted, which means I need to do exactly what I was told to do. Rest. Which I will do as soon as I finish eating.
After a relaxing, hot shower, I dress in clean pj’s and hop into bed. I started a book on my eReader a few weeks ago and haven’t had the chance to get back to it. Now I’ve got three days, and the notion makes me smile. I could use a few days to decompress—gather my thoughts.
Picking up my reader, I glance over at my phone and see a little red dot with the number two inside, notifying me that I’ve got two text messages waiting for me. Probably Robin. Who else could it be? Grabbing the device, I press the icon.
Cranky Pants:What I said about your furniture was uncalled for. After some thought, I realize they must be sentimental pieces. I’m sorry.
Cranky Pants:Your lasagna was delicious. I can’t help wondering what else you can cook. I’m a disaster in the kitchen.
He can’t be that horrible in the kitchen. I seem to remember the smell of bacon that morning after…
I stare at the message for longer than is good for me. I’m tempted to reply, but why would I? This man is confusing. Not just confusing; he’s a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. I read that somewhere, and while I’m not sure exactly what it means, I have a feeling it describes Nate Black perfectly.
Setting my phone aside, I pick up my eBook and read. Or try to. The urge to respond to him is strong. I need to just do it so I can forget about him and focus on my book.
Me:The couch belonged to my late mother. It’s very sentimental. Thank you for apologizing. And yes, I can cook. My mom taught me.
There. That’s done. Setting the phone back down, I pick up my reader as the chime sounds again. That was fast.
Nate:I’m sorry about your mother.
I stare at the three dots as they vibrate. When they disappear, I’m about to set it aside again, but his next message appears.
Nate:You can cook for me anytime.
What the ever-loving hell?
