“Not as gorgeous as you.”
My cheeks warm.
“Smells good. Were you making something?”
“No, that would be?—”
“Pulled pork.” My grandmother wipes her hands on a towel and bustles around.
Not having had a chance to tell her about the date, I hesitate. “Grandma, Patton and I are?—”
“Just in time to eat.”
I open my mouth to correct her when she talks over me. “Lieutenant Cross, please come in. Winnie, put those in water. Patton, I need your opinion on something.”
Before either of us can protest, she’s leading him through the house, pointing out various fixtures that are perpetually on the fritz.
“The drain in the kitchen sink has been acting up again, too,” she says. “And the screen to the door on the back porch is inviting in flies.”
“It’s been too cold out for—” I start.
She turns to my date. “Would you mind taking a look?”
“Grandma, we have a reservation?—”
She waves her hand. “It’s Thursday night, the roads are foggy, and I made plenty for us to eat.”
Patton shoots me an apologetic look. “I actually didn’t make a reservation. Figured tonight at the Timber’s Edge Inn restaurant wouldn’t be too busy.”
“Perfect!” Grandma claps her hands. “Then you can stay for dinner.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re still here because Patton not only looked at the drain and the screen, he fixed them. Then Grandma roped him into tightening the wobbly banister and adjusting the cabinet door that never quite closed right.
Now he’s in her kitchen, assembling dinner. He pulls something out of the crisper in the fridge and explains that adding scallion rings and julienned apple adds a satisfying crunch to the pulled pork. He toasts the buns and then arranges everything on top as if he’s not the guest.
“This man is a definite keeper,” Grandma stage whispers loud enough for him to hear.
“Grandma,” I hiss.
Patton just grins.
During dinner, Grandma grills him about his “culinary wizardry.”
“Started with boxed mac and cheese. Graduated to actual food around age fifteen.”
“What’s your favorite meal?” Grandma asks.
“Spaghetti carbonara. The first time I made it, it turned out more like scrambled eggs with pasta, but it’s now a special birthday meal at the station.”
I’m falling harder with every word. This warm, teasing, smiling-at-my-grandmother’s-terrible-jokes version of Patton is dangerous. Because this is the real him, the one he keeps hidden behind gruffness and self-satisfied smirks.
And I want more of it. More of him.
After dinner, we clean up and then Grandma Joyce conveniently remembers she has a call she has to make and shoos us to the front porch.
The night air is cold and crisp, carrying the scent of pine, thawing earth, and the coming spring. We sit on the porchswing and Patton drapes his arm across the back, close but not quite touching.
“So much for our date,” I say.
