But as I sit down, I notice Gavin standing awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for everyone to get settled. His focus bounces over the seats until it lands on the empty one beside me. He glances at me with a small shrug, like he’s asking permission to sit there.
God, I wish literally anyone else had taken this seat.
The thought of his masculine scent filling my lungs sounds excruciating. But every other seat is taken now.
It will be my peace offering. Out of the kindness of my generous heart. I’mbeing myselfnow, at my friends’ advice. I’m going back to three-years-ago Lena.
So I wave a hand in the direction of the empty chair to offer him the spot. With stiff shoulders, he walks over and drops into the seat. His spicy, woodsy scent invades my senses like I knew it would, and my brain scrambles like someone took a whisk to it.
Can I make it through this meal without breathing too much? Or I’ll simply hover close to my bowl of soup the entire time and hope it’ll mask the smell of him.
“Would you like some cheese?”
His deep voice startles me from my staring contest with my potato soup.
“Sure. Yes,” I stammer.
He sets the dish above my bowl with a nod.
I’m going to have to force myself to be friendly to him. We have to spend a week in the same house. Surely, I can get over whatever had him disappearing three years ago, and we can fall back into the normal friendship we used to have.
Right? That has to be possible.
“Do you want some bread?” I offer, lifting the basket from beside my bowl. “Seems someone found the bread we were missing.”
See, that’s another peace offering. I’m the patron saint of peace and good relations.
And bread sharing.
He takes the basket and passes it to Auggie on his other side. “No, thank you. I was diagnosed with celiac disease last year. That’s why we went to the store, but gluten-free bread does not exist in Juniper, apparently.”
My skin prickles with this new information. Somethingchangedwhile we were apart. And for some reason, I hate that I wasn’t aware.
“Did you tell my mom? There could be traces of gluten in this.”
One corner of his mouth lifts in an easy grin. “I told her. We went shopping for all the ingredients we needed.”
An image flashes through my mind of Gavin and my mom at the grocery store together. He’s more than a foot taller than her, and with his signature black ensemble, he would look like a looming shadow following my chattering mother down an aisle.
“Was she grumpy about changing her recipes?”
Gavin’s warm gaze lands on my mom across the table. “No, actually. She’s the one who dragged me to the store this morning. I told her I would just make my own food this week, but she refused.” He looks back down at his bowl, a hint of pink on his cheeks. “She said I’m hired as her sous chef this week to make sure she gets it all right.”
I can’t stop my lips from twisting at the memory of my mom and Gavin in the kitchen every holiday. She’s such a perfectionist about her food that she doesn’t even let me do much.
But she lets Gavin help with anything. He was always there from start to finish, beside her at the stove or washing the dishes she used. They would laugh at their inside jokes while music drifted from the speaker in the corner.
“Well, don’t forget to put the lid on the blender this time,” I advise with a mock-stern look.
He laughs, deep and raspy, and my chest lurches. I’ve missed that sound so much. He rarely lets it out, but when he does, it’s like a prize.
Those laughs are a secret weapon someone could use to make me submit to anything.
His eyes meet mine, the color of cool whiskey. “I’ve never made that mistake again.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s still a little peppermint milkshake on the ceiling all these years later.”
Our gazes hold, my spoon halfway to my mouth and his twirling in his bowl. I take in the strong line of his jaw that I want to run my palm over. His perfect lips that look like they would feel silky soft if I touched them. Those shiny, thick strands of hair that I want to feel running through my fingers.
