Tobin didn’t hesitate. She knew she simply needed say what was on her mind.
TOBIN—8:53 a.m.
I’d like to cook for you.
TOBIN—8:54 a.m.
I like to cook. It’s… one of my things.
And I think we could both use the
opportunity to get to know each other,
without the runaway flirting.
GRIER—8:59 a.m.
Hmm. I agree to your terms.
Tobin’s shoulders eased from their anxious hold. Her stomach flipped—first settling with the acceptance, then resuming its steady churning as the realization hit: she now had to explain herself. She still had to accept that her carefully laid plans might be fraying along their reinforced seams. And she was the one steadily picking at them.
She’d lost the ability to formulate intentional conversation.
TOBIN—9:02 a.m.
When?
GRIER—9:03 a.m.
My sister is still in town through Tuesday. I
can’t take off any more work this week.
Saturday?
Saturday. A rudimentary plan formulated in her mind.
TOBIN—9:07 a.m.
Deal. It would be easiest to cook at my
place, if that’s not too forward. I can have
it ready before you arrive. Or, if you’d be
interested, you could come with me to
the farmer’s market to pick out the
ingredients, and then we can talk while I
prepare.
GRIER—9:11 a.m.
I don’t think you could possibly be too
forward at this point, Tobin.
