“This is…” I fight the lump in my throat. “…a lot.”
He gives a small smile. “You can’t say I don’t commit.”
A laugh slips out, surprising even me. “On a ridiculous level.”
He glances toward the glass doors leading to the patio. “But the weather’s perfect. And I figured we could use a reset.”
Reset.The word sends a flurry of emotions surging through me, every single one of them nostalgic.
He wheels the cart out to the veranda and I follow, careful not to wince when my leg twinges. Two oversized lounge chairs face the ocean, draped in shadows and the twinkle of string lights.
The breeze carries a blend of sea salt and rosemary, probably from whatever dish he ordered that looks far too pretty to eat.
Without a word, Nolan moves to adjust one of the chairs. He reaches for a cushion, plumps it with surprising care, then turns back to me.
“Sit,” he orders gently. “Let me help.”
Before I can protest, his hands are already at my side, steady and sure, guiding me down like I’m something fragile. Like heknowsI hate being fragile but won’t let that stop him.
Once I’m seated, he crouches beside me, checking the angle of my leg, adjusting the throw blanket he grabbed from inside. It’s too hot outside for that right now, but I don’t tell him that.
“You didn’t have to?—”
His honey-glazed gaze finds mine. “I want to, Rorie.”
And when I’m settled, leg propped up just right, blanket tucked around me, starts lifting lids and revealing a feast of foods.
When he lifts another lid off of a serving bowl, he hands me a memory.
Tomato soup. Grilled cheese. My mother humming in the kitchen, the press of her palm against my hair.
Days when I couldn’t say what was wrong, and she didn’t ask, she just fed me this.
He sees me eyeing the soup and says, “Someone really special to me told me it’s really good for comfort.”
Blinking back the tears, I swallow the ache in my chest. “This,” I say softly, “is perfect.”
Nolan doesn’t gloat. He smiles, nods his head. “Good.”
After he’s filled our plates with Mac n’ Cheese, fries, and some other delectable foods, he drops into the chair beside mine with a sigh. He stares out at the waves like he’s been waiting all night to get here.
Neither of us speaks.
But somehow, it says everything.
We settle in. He pours himself a glass of wine. But when he starts to pour me one, I stop him with a hand on his wrist.
“Painkillers.”
He nods, no questions, no judgment. Just sets the bottle down. For a few minutes, we eat, letting the silence do the talking.
“So, are you going to make me one of those famous waffles of yours?”I ask, dipping my grilled cheese into my soup.
“Maybe for dessert.”
Nolan has a handful of fries sitting on his plate. Without thinking, I snatch one, popping it into my mouth before he can protest.
He winks. “Tastes better, am I right?”
