“Thank you,” I murmured, mortified all over again.
Only then did I notice he was wearing a slate-gray suit—not the casual clothes I’d grown used to seeing him in during his increasingly frequent visits to DawesHouse when we’d walk the garden paths or sit on what had become our favorite bench while watching Henry and Addie play.
He must’ve come straight from the office or some important meeting. And here I was fainting like some melodramatic Victorian heroine who’d had a “great shock” over—what? Calling in an anonymous tip about one of my neighbors and pissing off half the building? Being terrified of disappointing people who’d started to feel like family? Or, I don’t know, maybe it was the phantom voice that had whisperedrunin my ear.
Pathetic,I thought bitterly.Was I really that needy? That easily scared?
Irritated with myself, I stood abruptly, but my head swam again. I reached out blindly for something to steady myself.
Whit’s hand found mine immediately. “I’ve heard of someone being a lightweight, but…”
I opened my mouth to protest his assumption, but when I caught his gaze, I saw a sparkle of humor there. “You’re teasing me.”
His expression immediately shifted into its customary seriousness. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No, no!” I interrupted in a rush. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I just…” I sighed, words failing me. “I’m not really used to anyone…” I let my words hang there, not sure how to characterize this particular void in my interpersonal relationships. I didn’t have many friends. Certainly not anyone who teased me or was playful with me in any way, honestly, even when I was a kid. Even my friends from the old coffee shop had been careful around me, maybe sensing there was something different. Or maybe I just gave off a vibe that kept people at a distance.
I shook my head, clearing away thoughts of how Whit had so quickly filled gaps I didn’t know existed. Heat crept into my cheeks. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, thank you for your help. Really. I think I’m okay now.”
Despite my assurances, Whit stayed close, valiantly absorbing June’s barbed glances as I picked up Henry from her apartment. And he stayed at my elbowwhen we made our way to the elevator. And he stepped inside with us, pressing the button for the fourth floor before I could insist for a third time that I was fine.
When we reached my apartment, Whit slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the couch before rolling up his shirt sleeves. “What would you like for dinner, Henry?” he asked with a grin. “Spaghetti tacos?”
Henry burst out laughing. “Yuck! No!”
Whit looked up at the ceiling as if thinking. “Hmm… How about fried frog legs and turtle soup?”
Henry gasped. “No way! That’sgross!”
Whit rested his hands on his hips. “Okay, then you tell me, sir—what sounds good?”
Henry’s eyes lit up. “Chocolate chip pancakes!” He grabbed Whit’s hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “C’mon! I’ll show you where everything is.”
Whit shot me an amused glance and winked. “We’ve got this.”
I sat in the living room for several minutes, stunned, listening to the concerning clattering and banging around of bowls and skillets and to Henry’s laughter—his big, heartwarming belly laughs—as Whit apparently committed unspeakable culinary crimes.
Henry shrieked with laughter. “No, Mr. Whit! Not like that!” Another cackle. “Oh, my gosh!”
Smiling, I finally went to the kitchen door and burst into laughter.
There was pancake batter on the counter, the wall, the floor… An unreasonable number of dishes were already piled in the sink. Whit’s suit pants—which I imagined were extremely expensive—were splattered with pancake mix, and a smear of batter was on his cheek.
Henry turned to me, beaming with amusement, hair spiked with a glob of drying batter. “Mama! I don’t think he’s done this before!”
Whit grimaced apologetically. “I’m afraid Henry is correct. Cooking isn’t my forte.”
I shook my head, not bothering to suppress my amusement as I entered the kitchen and waved him aside. “Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. Proffitt.” I squeezed between them, my hip brushing against Whit and making my stomach flutter. Struggling to ignore how close he stood, peering over my shoulder into the bowl, I added more mix to the soupy batter. “Wow…this is…”
“A disaster?” Whit supplied.
I turned to look at him and our eyes locked. The air shifted, growing charged as we both seemed to realize how his body crowded mine in the small kitchen. Our smiles faded. He leaned closer. His eyes dropped to my lips then back up to my eyes, and my heartbeat thudded against my ribs, my breath growing shallow. And when he placed his palm lightly on the small of my back, my eyes fluttered shut on a sharp exhale.
“Mama!” Henry said, tugging my shirt. “Don’t forget the chocolate chips!”
My eyes snapped open, and I quickly shifted my attention to my son. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t forget. Where are they?”
“Here you go.” Whit held out a bag of chocolate chips, his eyes still burning as his gaze met mine. “I think I have what you need.”
