“We both made logical choices. It’s good it’s happening quickly. Delay isn’t sensible once decisions are made, so it’s best it’s moving forward quickly.”
She poured olive oil, spooned some Dijon mustard with it in a bowl. After a distracted moment, she added a splash of balsamic vinegar. “Except for my part.”
“You’ll get there.”
“I’m not confident of that at this point.”
“I am, so take some of mine.” He watched her spoon a little Worcestershire in the bowl, then some Italian dressing he knew she used primarily for marinades. In went the garlic, some pepper, a little chopped fresh basil.
“What’re you doing there, Abigail?”
“I’m going to coat the potatoes with this and roast them. I’m making it up,” she added, as she began to whisk the mixture. “It’s science, and science keeps me grounded. Experimenting is satisfying when the results are pleasing. Even when they aren’t, the process of the experiment is interesting.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She whisked, sniffed, narrowed her own eyes, added a little something more.
Pretty as a picture, he thought, with her hair still a little damp from the shower and pulled back in a short, glossy brown ponytail. She’d put on a sleeveless shirt of quiet gray and jeans that rolled up into casual cuffs just above her knees.
One of her nines sat at easy reach on the counter by the back door.
Her face, those wide green eyes, stayed so sober, so serious, as she put the potatoes into a large bowl, poured the experimental mixture over them, reached for a wooden spoon.
“Marry me, Abigail.”
She dropped the spoon. Bert sauntered over to sniff at it politely.
“Well, that just popped out,” he said, when she just stared at him.
“You were joking.” She picked up the spoon, set it in the sink, lifted another from a pottery sleeve. “Because I’m cooking, and it’s a domestic area.”
“I’m not joking. I’d figured to set the scene a lot better when I asked you. That moonlight you want, flowers, maybe some champagne. A picnic’s what I had in mind. A moonlight picnic up at the spot you like with the view of the hills. But I’m sitting here, looking at you, and it just popped out.”
He came around the counter, took the spoon, set it aside so he could take both her hands. “So marry me, Abigail.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t something we can consider, much less discuss, particularly when my situation remains in flux.”
“Things are always in flux. Not this,” he added. “I swear to you we’ll end this, we’ll fix this. But there’s always going to be something. And I think now’s the perfect time, before it’s ended, before it’s fixed, because we should be able to promise each other when things outside aren’t perfect.”
“If it goes wrong—”
“Then it goes wrong. We don’t.”
“Marriage…” She drew her hands free, used them to stir the coating on the potatoes. “It’s a civil contract broken at least half the time with another document. People enter into it promising forever, when in reality—”
“I’m promising you forever.”
“You can’tknow.”
“I believe.”
“You—you’ve just moved in. Just hung clothes in the closet.”
“Noticed that, did you?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other less than three months.” She got out a casserole dish—and busy, busy, busy—scooped and poured the coated potatoes into it. “We have a very difficult situation to address. If you feel strongly about the subject, and continue to feel strongly, I’d be willing to discuss our views on the matter at some more rational time.”
“Delay is an excuse.”
