I started to argue, but then closed my mouth as my mind raced through possibilities.
Grandpa pushed his chair back from the table and stretched. “Come on, Tilly,” he said. “Let’s take Lois for a walk and see if that squirrel has any more attitude to spare.”
“Okay!” Tilly hopped down and put on her little puffer coat.
When they were gone, Grandma handed me a towel and leaned back against the counter.
“Mabel told me how you look at her,” she said softly. “So I know you’re disappointed right now. But this isn’t just about dating or not dating. Both of you could use a friend.”
She reached for a folded sheet of paper beside the saltshaker and slid it across the table. “Here’s the application form for the Honeybrook Hollow Taste-Off.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t know about this. I’m not sure.”
“Tell her I can’t do it. Blame my bad knee, or tell her my carpal tunnel is acting up. Doesn’t matter. You need a partner. She’s it.
“That sounds like tricking her.”
“It’s not tricking, it’s nudging. And you’re not asking her on a date—you’re inviting her to cook with you.She’s not running from cooking. She’s running from feelings.” Her eyes shifted to the side. “I mean, that’s my guess.”
“Sure. Uh-huh. Your guess. You must have been spending time with her grandma. Is that it?”
She shrugged in answer.
I stared at the form, then looked back at her. “You think this’ll work?”
“Give her space if she needs it. But don’t disappear.”
“She told me she doesn’t want to hurt me.”
“She won’t,” Grandma said. “Not if you show her she doesn’t have to be alone. Invite her to cook. Make it her idea, if that helps. But don’t give up on her.”
I scrubbed a hand through my hair. “You really think this will work? Seriously?”
“I think,” Grandma said, “that amazing and beautiful things often start in ordinary places. Like a kitchen counter, elbow-deep in cookie dough and pie crusts. No pressure to decide anything more than what comes next. You need to meet each other where you are and see what happens.
I stared at her, heart thudding.
Yeah. I’d ask her to cook with me.
Not as a date.
Just as… us.
Whatever we were becoming before Graham got into her head.
I sat back in my chair, thoughts spinning. Maybe she was right. Maybe Eliza didn’t need flowers or romantic gestures right now. Maybe she needed flour, a prep list, and someone to believe she still had something worth sharing.
And maybe—I was that someone.
When we got home, Tilly crashed hard—pink cheeks and soft snores within minutes of being tucked in. Lois curled up at the foot of her bed like the world’s most loyal guard dog. I lingered outside her room for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing. The quiet moments always got me the most.
I stepped into the hall, feeling a strange mix of hope and nerves tangling in my stomach. I gathered the courage to reach out, and I realized how small gestures could mean everything. Maybe this was the start of something—messy, uncertain, but real.
Back in the living room, I sank onto the couch with a heavy sigh and pulled out my phone.
Still nothing from Eliza. And I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.
I stared at her message:Please don’t hate me.Even in those few words, I felt her doubt, her worry about being “too much”. Icouldn’t hate her. Not now, not ever. If she needed proof, I’d give it a thousand times over.
