Nate stilled, eyes searching mine, breath shallow. I swallowed, fingers curling around my mug like it could anchorme. When he finally leaned back, the space he left behind felt loud and unfinished.
“Worst case scenario,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “we eat our mistakes.”
His smile was slow, knowing. “Best case?”
I met his gaze, heart pounding. “We give more than just Honeybrook Hollow, something really good to remember.”
He looked down at his hands, like he was giving both of us a second to breathe, and I realized mine were still shaking. I pressed my knees together under the table, trying to quiet the storm he’d kicked up inside me. That almost-kiss replayed on a loop—how close he’d been, how easy it would’ve been to lean that last inch. How much a part of me had wanted to.
Don’t,I told myself.You know better than this.
But my body hadn’t gotten the memo. My lips still tingled like they’d been promised something and left waiting. My chest felt too tight, my thoughts too loud. Because it wasn’t just attraction—though there was plenty of that—it was the way he’d looked at me, like I was already something important. Like I mattered to him.
I took a slow sip of tea I didn’t taste, and reminded myself why I built walls in the first place. Because moments like that didn’t just stir hope. They made you forget how badly hope could hurt.
And still… when I looked back up, Nate was watching me again, softer now, like he felt it too. And that was the most dangerous part.
“Nowthat’sthe Eliza I want in my kitchen.”
My cheeks flushed. “You already have your grandma.”
“She’s faking carpal tunnel to play matchmaker, I’m pretty sure,” he said with a wink. “But I’m not complaining.”
I shook my head and fought a smile. “Okay, so what dish are we entering with?”
Nate leaned in again. “I vote comfort food. You feel like comfort food.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean,” he said, trying to sound innocent. “You’re warm and delicious and leave people wanting more.”
I snorted. “That is the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“It wasn’t a pickup line. It was a menu description.” He grinned. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
It did. Damn him. I rolled my eyes, but my heart thumped a little faster. “I guess it’s totally normal for us. Besides, every good team needs both a star and a sidekick.”
He bumped my shoulder lightly. “As long as the sidekick gets extra gravy.”
I pretended to study the form while my brain scrambled for solid footing. “Fine. Comfort food. But it has to be good. Simple, nostalgic, maybe with a twist.”
“What’s your go-to comfort meal?” he asked, tracing a finger along the edge of his water glass.
“Chicken pot pie,” I said without hesitation. “From scratch. My grandma taught me when I was ten. It’s one of the specialties at The Honeybrook Inn’s restaurant.”
He smiled like I’d revealed a secret. “See, that’s what I want. Something real. Homey. With a killer biscuit. Or puff pastry. Or a flaky crust. I’ll let you decide.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Can you even make pastry?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m very good at grating cheese and staying out of the way.”
“You’re the dream sous chef,” I deadpanned.
“Oh, I’ll wear the apron. But only if it saysKiss the Cook.”
I laughed and tossed a napkin at him. “You are shameless.”
“And yet, here you are, planning a co-cooked comfort food throwdown with me like it’s totally normal.”
