Something flickered in his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He stood, carrying his plate. I followed him into the kitchen and trailed after him to the door. He turned.
I folded my arms, hugging myself tight. “So, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yes,” he said again.
He kissed me, hard, hot, and deep, and I kissed him back, rising on tiptoe to meet him, clutching him for balance. Giving him everything I had. When it ended, my lips were tingling and my brain was numb.
His breath was warm against my mouth. “Enjoy your space.”
My head wobbled up and down.Yes.
“Come early. Five o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
“Sure. Five.” I turned, staggered, and walked into the wall.Oops.
Eric grabbed my elbow, keeping me upright. “Careful,” he said mildly. “Don’t fall.”
Too late,I thought as I locked up behind him.
I’d fallen already, fathoms deep. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever climb back out again. Or if I even wanted to.
That night, Eric pulled back from our hello kiss to look down at the pie dish in my arms. His eyebrow raised in the way I was coming to love. “What is this?”
“I brought dessert.” I thrust it at him.
He took the plastic-wrapped plate. “You made this?”
“Hey, I can cook.”
“I know you can cook. But...” He regarded the plate in his hands, seemingly at a loss.
“What?” I asked. “You don’t like apple pie?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Jo. I love that you made pie. Baking is different, yeah? Special. I just... Nobody ever cooks for me.”
Of course not. He was Chef. Nominated for best 30 Under 30 chef the year he came to America, winner of a James Beard Award. The best cook, the best butcher, the best baker at Gusto.
“Because you intimidate everybody,” I said.
His gaze met mine. “But not you.”
His look warmed me to the soles of my feet. My toes tingled. “Oh, I’m intimidated,” I said airily. “But I figured you might like a home-cooked dessert for a change.”
“You are good to me.”
I snorted. Bethie was good, and Meg was nurturing, and Amy knew how to get along with everyone but me. I was stubborn and bad-tempered.Selfish,according to Aunt Phee.Heartless,Trey had said.
I wasn’t like Momma, that was for sure, needing to take care of everybody all the time. But this afternoon, after I’d finished writing my blog (Low and Slow: How to Make the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever!), I’d wanted to do something for Eric. He made me feel bigger somehow. More generous. Like I could give a little of myself and still have something left over.
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” I pointed out.
“I can’t wait.”
He hung my coat on a hook in the hall. His gaze warmed as he looked at me. “You look beautiful, Jo.”
I managed not to squirm. Because, yeah, I had gone to extra effort tonight. Fixed my face, left my hair out of its ponytail, dug a soft blue cashmere sweater—a castoff from Amy, actually—from the back of my closet. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”
