“How about you?” she asked.
“Me?” I dared a look in her direction. Were we still talking about relationships?
“How’s your mission to connect with Emily Dickinson coming along? Davis told me all about it.”
I wondered what else Davis had told her about me but kept that question to myself. “I’m revising the plan as I go.”
She grinned. “Smart girl. The tree that bends grows strong.” She checked her watch, then stood. “I hate to rush off after one cup of tea, but pickleballers wait for no one.”
I smiled. “Of course.” I walked her back to her car and waved as she reversed away.
I hurried back to the kitchen and fanned the remaining smoke through open windows before it permeated the walls. I thought about my conversation with Grace and the way she made it seem as if Davis’s life was the only one she meddled with.
She’d told Davis about the letters I received from classmates. Did she think my potential suitors affected Davis somehow? Why would they? And why hadn’t I asked her to clarify?
A sudden bout of coughing changed the direction of my thoughts. I cursed my ruined soup and ability to fall asleep in a heartbeat these days. Darn peace and tranquility.
The doorbell rang again, and I abandoned my fruitless efforts to clear the smoke to find Davis on my porch.
He wore his usual jeans, with a gray boatneck sweater over a white T-shirt, and he’d traded his work boots for deck shoes. His hair was damp from a shower, and the moment I opened the door, I wanted to drown in the fresh, clean scent of him.
His brows furrowed before I said hello. “Is that more smoke? Seriously?”
I grimaced. “It’s under control. A minor mishap. No big deal.”
He stared at the space behind me. The pointed downturn of his lips suggested he could smell the burned beef, bacon, and veggies.
“I was making asparagus soup, but I fell asleep.”
He shook his head, apparently equal parts amused and flabbergasted.
“Can I help you with something? Or did you sense the smoke and rush over to complain?” I asked.
Slowly, his attention returned to me. “I got a call from the magazine,” he said, a spark of happiness lighting his eyes. “They want to send a photographer this week. I invited Grace out for dinner to celebrate, but she suggested I ask you instead.”
I nearly laughed at the timing of his request. She was tenacious. “Honored to be your second choice again today,” I said, only partially teasing.
“Would you like to join me for dinner at Clayton’s pub?”
I dithered.
“Come on,” he said, with the wave of a hand. “We can talk about my nosy aunt. And you can get away from that horrid smell.”
The burned-soup scent registered again, and I frowned. “Give me ten minutes to change.”
On the way out, I grabbed my purse, phone, and key from the entryway table and gave the butterflies in my stomach a stern, but silent, warning. This was not a date.
“More letters?” he asked, nodding toward the pile of envelopes I’d left on the table.
“Grace delivered them.”
Davis raised his eyes to me and stiffened.
“What’s wrong?” I glanced down at myself, turning one way then the other. My ice-blue sweaterdress and suede booties were both seasonally appropriate and fantastically comfortable.
“You’re overdressed.”
“I like this outfit,” I said defensively. Something in the clench of his jaw suggested he was deflecting, and I nearly asked if it was my dress or the fresh stack of letters that bothered him.
