“I want to cook you dinner. I want to sit across from you at my table and watch you eat something I made. I want—” I stop myself. “This is ridiculous. I sound ridiculous.”
“You sound honest.” She leans into my side as we walk. “It’s refreshing.”
The cottage comes into view—snow blanketing the roof, clinging to the window boxes I planted last spring.
“This is my space,” I say. “Converted it a few years back. Office, kitchenette, somewhere to crash when I’m working late.” I planted the window boxes, added hanging ferns to the little front porch. Made it into something that feels like mine, even if I sleep at the farmhouse most nights.
“You have your own little hideaway,” she says, looking at the cottage with something like delight.
“Is that good?”
“It’s very good.” She’s already heading for the front door. “Show me around.”
Inside,the cottage is warm—I left the heat on this morning, hoping—and smells like earth and green things. Plants everywhere, of course. Potted herbs on the windowsill, a fiddle leaf fig in the corner, trailing pothos along the bookshelves. It’s small, just one main room with a kitchenette along one wall, but I’ve made it cozy. Cara walks through, trailing her fingers over leaves, looking at everything.
“It’s like a jungle in here,” she says, but she’s smiling. “I love it.”
“I can’t help myself. If there’s an empty surface, I put a plant on it.”
“What’s this one?” She’s touching a trailing vine near the window.
“String of pearls. Finicky, but worth it.” I watch her examine the delicate beads. “Most people think I’d want to leave work at work. But plants calm me down. They don’t expect anything except water and light.”
“What else did you fill this place with?” She moves to the bookshelf, tilts her head to read the spines. “Gardening manuals? Seed catalogs?”
“Some. And novels, when I can’t sleep.” I shrug. “I wanted to understand what it would be like. To live surrounded by growing things.”
“And what did you conclude?”
“That it takes patience. And faith.” I meet her eyes. “Believing that something invisible underground is going to become something beautiful. Even when you can’t see it yet.”
“Is that the metaphor again?”
“Maybe.” Her smile softens. “I’m a writer. Everything’s a metaphor.”
I move past her to the kitchenette, needing to do something with my hands. “What do you like? For dinner. I’ve got pasta, or I could do stir fry, or?—”
“What do you want to make?”
I pause. “What?”
“You asked what I want. I’m asking what you want.” She leans against the counter, watching me. “This is your space. Your kitchen. Make whatever makes you happy.”
Nobody asks me that. Not even Lucas.
“Risotto,” I say. “I want to make risotto. It takes forever and it’s kind of pretentious, but I love it.”
“Then make risotto.” She pulls out a kitchen stool and sits. “Can I watch?”
“You want to watch me cook?”
“I want to watch you do something you love.” Her eyes are warm. “Is that okay?”
More than okay. It’s everything.
I cook while she watches.
It’s strangely intimate—more intimate than the kiss, somehow. Standing at my stove, stirring rice, adding broth ladle by ladle, while Cara Donovan sits at my counter and asks questions about my life.
