I’m at work, but thanks.
How’s the job?
Great! she typed, then deleted it
Pretty well. Busy. Nice place.
Cool. See you this weekend, yeah?
Yeah. Rosie & I are talking flowers. Any favorites?
Roses, obvs.
Ew. You’re so smarmy now. I kind of hate this side of you.
He sent a GIF of Betty White giving the middle finger. She couldn’t top that, so she hit the laugh response and opened her laptop. She had a spreadsheet for their wedding, as she’d had for every event, from speed dating to funerals (yes, it was a thing). Robbie and Rosie’s wedding would be Christmas-themed, all deep red, white and green, held at the gorgeous Chatham Bars Inn, which knew how to do luxe events.
Winnie didn’t mind posh weddings when the bride was as casual as Rosie was (and when she was a guest who got to eat all that good food). After all, the money went to the local economy—the hotels, servers, florists, caterers, bridal shops, hair and makeup artists. Rosie was an easy client, loving pretty much everything Winnie showed her. Winnie had designed the invitation, two Rs facing each other, intertwined, roses spilling down the signs, and Rosie got tears in her eyes. “It’s beautiful, Winnie. So special. I wonder what you’ll do when your own wedding rolls around.”
“Elope,” she said. In that moment, she pictured her and Mitchell in a cute town in New Hampshire or Vermont.
Shit.
She tossed her laptop aside on the bed and went up the spiral staircase. She was starving, and the Tony Chocolonely bars were calling her name. Lorenzo stood at the complicated stove, a piece of fish in the frying pan, asparagus boiling in a pot next to it.
“You don’t have a couch downstairs,” she said. “It makes watching television a bit less comfortable.”
He glanced at her. “I haven’t gotten around to furnishing the whole house. And I don’t watch television.”
“Ever?”
“Very rarely. Order one.”
“One what?”
“A couch. Something tasteful, please, in keeping with the aesthetic of the house. You can check the labels in the living room. Do not buy from a big-box store. Feel free to use the space while you work here. In your off-time, of course.”
Gosh, she could sit on it and everything? “Okay.”
She looked at the sad pot of boiling asparagus. “You know, asparagus tastes great if you grill it.” He didn’t comment. “Or at least steam it. You could put some butter in there if you want to actually enjoy it. Maybe some dill on the fish. And salt and pepper.”
“Are you a chef?”
She was not, but Mitchell had, at the very least, given her some cooking tips. “No.”
“Then save your input. I know how to cook a healthy dinner.” He paused. “Do you want to join me?”
And eat that sadness right there? “Um…” She didn’t have anything better to do, and she wasn’t sure he’d allow DoorDash to come up his precious driveway, as they had last night with her order of fried dumplings and chicken with broccoli (also a healthy dinner, in her mind). “Will you put butter on mine, at least?”
“If you want to clog your arteries, then yes.” He opened the fridge, got another filet and added it to the pan.
Was that an almost smile? More likely a mouth spasm from the thought of butter. She set the table in the kitchen, since she’d gone through his cabinets yesterday so she’d know where everything went (and because it was fun, seeing what he’d bought, what he still could use, getting the feel of this very elegant house). She took out cloth napkins, since he didn’t have the paper variety, and set the table.
He brought their plates to the small kitchen table. Hers had two pats of butter melting on both the fish and the asparagus. No rice or couscous or potatoes, though. That was okay. She had peanut butter crackers in her car for emergencies.
She waited till he sat and put his napkin on his lap, then took a bite. “Not bad,” she said. He didn’t respond, but began eating himself.
Time to get to know her employer a little better. “Did you always want to be a doctor?” she asked.
