Something had shifted between us the night before. His confession, and my easy acceptance, seemed to smooth the cracks between us. We’d lingered in the driveway later, watching stars and prolonging the goodbye. Even several feet apart, I’d never felt more connected to someone.
Seeing him back on my doorstep in the sunlight, I whistled. “Wow. You look nice. Someone should come and take your picture. Oh, wait.” I grinned and swung the door wide, inviting him inside.
“I haven’t been this nervous since prom,” he said. “Maybe not even then.”
I had plans to make myself scarce when the photographer fromArchitectural Digestarrived.
“What if I trip over something and fall on my head?” Davis asked flatly. “What if I accidentally left something on the floor and the photographer falls ontheirhead?”
I laughed and motioned him forward. “Nothing’s going wrong today. It’s your time to shine. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”
“No. I’ve had more than my share already. Dear lord. What is that smell?” he asked.
“Vinegar.” I ignored the disgust in his tone. Mostly because I didn’t disagree. I closed the door and went back to the kitchen.
“I should probably be glad the place isn’t on fire again,” he said, following. “Are you cleaning?”
I sent him eye daggers over one shoulder. “I’m cooking, thank you. And for the record, I’ve never set the place on fire.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
I washed my hands and returned to my work with a shake of my head.
Davis nervously paced the floor. His gaze traveled over the collection of vases scattered throughout the space. “That’s a lot of flowers.”
“And I love them all,” I said, casting a smile to the multitude of honeysuckle and daisies in question.
I’d found a recipe in a book about colonial life and decided to give it a try. Hopefully it was still good after one hundred and fifty years. The canning jars I’d discovered in a cupboard were washed and waiting near the sink, as were a pile of cucumbers I’d picked up at the farmers’ market. I sliced the vegetables into spears and set them in a bowl, then added dill and garlic. In a pot on the stovetop, I heated water, cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and some pickling spices to a boil. So far this was my favorite recipe, mostly because it didn’t require ninety ingredients, so it was unlikely I’d mess it up. I had a Cornish hen in the fridge I planned to prep for dinner.
“No breakfast pastries today?” Davis asked.
“In the pantry. Help yourself.” I pointed over my shoulder, then hefted the pot with an oven mitt.
Next, I slowly poured some of the mixture into each jar.
A sudden crashing sound rent the room as the jar before me splintered. Hot water splashed off the broken glass and countertop, stinging my cheek. I released the pan in a scream, and the rest of the steaming concoction dashed over my bare feet and ankles.
“Fuck!”
“Whoa.” Davis’s calm tenor seemed to echo through the cacophony of terrible sounds.
He caught me by my waist as I backpedaled away from the water, then set me on a chair. He threw towels over the mess on the floor, tossed the pot into the sink and turned on the water. He came to my side while I examined the red splotches on my arms and legs. “Here.”
Davis passed me a washrag doused in cold water, then pressed a second cloth to my stinging feet. “You okay? Are you cut anywhere?”
“No, but damn.” I pressed the back of one hand to my eyes, always ready to spill a few tears.
“Good. You take this, and I’ll handle that.” He gave me the second cold compress, then turned back to the disaster in my kitchen.
The urge to scream again nearly overcame me. I wanted to flip my chair and stomp the broken glass. Pickles? Really? I couldn’t manage the simplest recipe on earth without nearly needing a paramedic?
“Emma?” Davis said, brows arched in concern. He tossed a wad of sopping paper towels and a dustpan of glass shards into the trash. “You’re moaning.”
I slumped in my seat. “I just want to make one decent recipe before I leave here, and I thought this was something I couldn’t possibly ruin.”
“This had nothing to do with you,” he said. “It happens. Like when a bartender fills a clean glass, then lifts it and the bottom falls out? It’s science.”
“Yeah, well, I used to be good at science.”
