“They’re my favorite,” I tell him. “The best part is that they’re humanely harvested.” I explain, “Which means the ostriches aren’t killed for their feathers.”
“How do they get them?”
“They’re sheared. This allows the feathers to regrow. Kind of like sheep.”
“I never knew that.” Thomas smiles at me sweetly before asking, “Isn’t this something you’d enjoy doing on your own? There must be dirty jobs you’d rather I help with.”
He’s so thoughtful, my heart pings. Thomas is a wonderful man, and I’d like nothing more than to date him for real. It’s just the thought of him leaving Elk Lake is really messing with me. Could the Universe be gunning for me so badly that it would bring someone like him into my life only to take him away?
“Why don’t we do ostrich feathers until we eat?” I suggest. “And then we can head next door and look for a harder job.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Thomas and I get a total of forty-eight feathers fluffed before our food arrives. When we hear the bell tinkle over the front door, he jumps to his feet and meets the delivery man. When I hear him ask for the price, I yell, “I’m buying dinner!”
“Too late,” Thomas replies.
“But you’re the one doing me the favor.” I finally push myself off the floor and onto my feet before walking toward him.
As I take the bags from the delivery man, Thomas reminds me, “I bought your car out from under you. I owe you.”
I like how he thinks. “You really do,” I tell him. “But you’re going to sell it to me, so …”
“I still owe you.” He hands cash to the man from the restaurant and then leads the way toward a table that’s part of a restaurant scene I used in one of yesterday’s shots. The couple I filmed wanted to recreate their engagement. Talk about romantic.
I drop the food before walking over to the mini-fridge I keep stocked for clients. “You can have cola, diet cola, fruit punch, or sparkling orange-flavored water.”
“Fruit punch? Does anyone even drink that stuff anymore?” He sounds appalled.
“They still sell it,” I retort.
“I’ll do the water.”
I grab a bottle of water for him and a can of nice Hawaiian Punch for me. While I don’t particularly love fruity drinks, based on the fact that not all fruits should be blended, for some reason I feel like I need to champion it. Thomas has already unpacked our food, and he’s set the table with paper napkins and plastic silverware. The battery-operated candles are even turned on.
“Very romantic,” I tell him softly.
“I aim to please,” he says before taking the lids off our food.
Over supper I learn an array of things about my dinner companion. I’m surprised to find out that he’s never been to Mexico, but he’s traveled to Russia and Burma. He doesn’t like bananas or honeydew melons, but he loves figs. He speaks French well enough to order dinner, but not to get directions to the bathroom. And he reads a lot of conspiracy thrillers.
I keep grilling him, so he doesn’t have a chance to ask anything more about my life. He’s already learned enough for one day.
When I only have a couple of bites left, I ask, “Would you like to try my buttered noodles?” I don’t really want to share, but I sort of feel obligated. He did pay, after all.
“No, thank you. Would you like to try mine?”
I grimace. “Not even a little bit.”
Once we’re done eating, I clear the table and throw the empty containers into the garbage. Then I lead the way through the freshly cut doorway to show Thomas my new space. Turning on the lights, I ask, “What do you think?”
He looks around closely before deciding, “It’s nice. What are you going to do with it?”
“My realtor suggested I put the beds in here so they’re not off-putting to clientele looking for more standard pictures.”
Thomas nods his head. “I can see that.” Then he says, “The walls and floors are in good shape. Are you planning on redecorating?”
“Not for a while,” I tell him. “I need to make sure I can cover the additional expense first.”
