Chapter 18
Eliza
For once, the morning was mine.
I woke up without an alarm, the gray winter light easing through the curtains instead of demanding my attention. My grandma had volunteered to cover the Coffee Cabin—insisted, actually—waving me off with a smile that said she knew more than she was letting on and reminding me, twice, not to rush through my day.
So, I didn’t.
I lingered over coffee at my kitchen counter, watched steam curl into the air, and listened to Remy and Linguini thump around the apartment like they were late for something important. The quiet felt strange, indulgent. Usually, my mornings were measured in minutes and muscle memory. Today, time stretched.
I cleaned without needing to, folded laundry, and reorganized a drawer just to keep my hands busy. Every so often, my thoughts drifted back to Nate’s easy smile, the warmth of his kitchen, the way he looked at me like I was something that could last instead of something temporary. It felt good—dangerously good—to be seen that way, to be held in that kind of steady regard.
And yet, underneath it all, a familiar worry lingered. Wanting to be worthy of that kind of care wasn’t the same as believing I was. Part of me kept waiting for the moment he’d see what Graham always had—that I was complicated, difficult, not quite enough. I pressed my hands flat against the counter, breathing through the feeling, telling myself that being nervous didn’t mean being wrong.
By late morning, I showered and changed, choosing clothes with more thought than I wanted to admit. Comfortable, but intentional. Familiar, but soft. The kind of outfit you wear when you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not nervous.
I checked my phone—no new messages—but I didn’t need one. The plan was set. Spaghetti. Cooking together. Nothing complicated.
And yet…
As I pulled my coat on and grabbed my keys, my heart kicked up a notch, like it recognized the moment before I did. This wasn’t just a way to pass the day. It felt like stepping into a room where something important was waiting.
I locked the door behind me and headed for the car, the cold air sharpening my breath.
It’s just dinner,I told myself.
But my pulse didn’t believe me.
I stopped at the mailbox on the way to my car. It coughed up a coupon flyer, a library slip, and—of course—a heavy cream envelope with my name printed in calligraphy on the front.
I didn’t open it until I reached my car.
Graham Barton requests the honor…Gold embossing. Cocktail attire. Grand opening tomorrow night. Local leaders. Industry friends. Please come worship at the altar of Me.
“Eat a baguette,” I muttered, which sounded tougher in my head.
Nate’s place sat a few blocks off Sycamore Street: dignified blue paint, old maple, front steps with the right kind of creak—a pair of tiny rainbow boots waited by the door beside a wicker basket stuffed with dog toys. A crayon drawing had been taped at kid-height: two stick figures, one chocolate-brown blob labeled Lois,a house with too many windows, and a sun in sunglasses. Caption: Our Home.
The door swung open on soap-and-coffee warm air.
“Hey,” he said, soft like we were sharing a secret. Gray tee. Faded jeans. Simple white apron. Hair pushed back with his palm. The look on his face did dangerous things to my heart, along with other places.
As I hesitated, the scent of coffee from the kitchen wafted through the air, and Lois ambled over to greet me with a soft thump of her tail. I knelt to scratch behind her ears, feeling my nerves settle a little. There was warmth here that felt effortless, woven into the creaks of the floorboards.
“Hey,” I said, stepping further in, the envelope burning a hole in my bag.
His kitchen was every kind of cozy: butcher-block counters, a chalkboard wall of grocery lists and Tilly art, a ceramic canister labeledCookie Emergency. On the island, ingredients stood like a perfectionist had lined them up. Cans of tomatoes, dried basil in a mason jar, a block of parmesan, a loaf of bread wrapped in paper, and the good olive oil. A big pot was already placed on the back burner; a pan was waiting on the front.
He handed me a mug—glitter paint proclaiming Miss Coffee Elf—and pretended not to watch me smile at it. “House rules,” he said. “We taste as we go and lie about nothing.”
“So, no gaslighting the marinara,” I said.
“Exactly.” His mouth tipped. “And if you grade my garlic bread, please do it on a generous curve.”
We found an easy rhythm—me at the board, him at the stove. I minced garlic while he coaxed the onions glossy and sweet; he tipped the pan like he was asking permission, and I slid the garlic in to bloom. The whole place shifted at once—into comfort, into memory, into the kind of warmth that makes you linger.
“You’re humming,” he said, like he’d stumbled onto something fragile.
