“I could build it myself. Stone and mortar. It’s not complicated.”
“And who would be operating this pizza oven? Because I want to be transparent about my culinary range.” She takes a sip of wine. “The last thing I baked was bread and cheese in a toaster oven in a dorm room which led to a small fire that we did eventually get under control.”
Mum laughs, then leans forward in her chair. “Sounds like you need someone in your life who can cook, dear.”
She beams as if she has been holding her game-winning card all night and finally found the right moment to deploy it. Celeste’s cheeks flush. I shoot Mum a look. She returns it with absolute serenity, knowing exactly what she did and she has no regrets.
“More wine?” I ask Celeste, because redirect is the only tool available to me when Mum decides to play matchmaker.
“Please.”
I pour. Celeste drinks. The evening settles around us like a blanket—warm, soft, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Mum tells a story about teaching me to cook when I was twelve. At first, I hated it. Then, she told me cooking was the way to get all the girls and suddenly I was more into it. I burned the first three attempts at scrambled eggs so badly she considered calling the fire department, and Celeste laughs until her eyes water, and Mum glows under the attention, and the deck doesn’t creak anymore because I fixed it, every board, with my own hands.
This is what it could be. This is what it could feel like every night.
I put that thought away too. I lock it in a box and throw it into the ocean. It’s not easy, but I try to stay present and enjoy the current moment instead of planning the future ones. But that’s what keeps me intact. A plan. A promise. Anything to ensure that what I caused won’t consume us forever.Hope.
At quarter to seven, Mum yawns.
It is the most theatrical, least convincing yawn in the history of human performance. She tilts her head back, opens her mouth to a width that suggests she’s trying to swallow the whole sky, and produces a sound that belongs in a community theater production ofSleeping Beauty.
“Oh my,” she says, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “I’m suddenly so terribly exhausted. I think I’ll turn in for the night. Don’t mind me. You two enjoy the evening.”
She rises from the table with a swiftness that is completely inconsistent with a woman who is supposedly exhausted and also has a spinal injury, and retreats into the house with the brisk efficiency of a stagehand clearing props between scenes.
The deck is quiet.
Celeste looks at me. “Does your mom normally go to bed at six forty-five? Or did I scare her off?”
“No.” I grin. “She’s being my wingwoman and trying to give us privacy.”
She lets that music-laughter play again. “Privacy for what, Saylor? Why would you want to be alone with me?”
I look at her. She looks at me. The oak tree holds its breath.
“You know why,” I say.
chapter 15
Celeste
Do I know why?
Maybe. But it’s too hard to admit it.
Even with the wine warm in my stomach, the evening soft around us, and the way this gorgeous man is looking at me with what looks like hunger, I just can’t wrap my head around it. We’re different species. There’s no way I’m anything to Saylor but a conquest. At my age, it’s my responsibility to see reason. Saylor gets to live with his head in the clouds, amidst fantasies where we’re hot and heavy at night, and a Hallmark family special during the day just isn’t happening. And as much as I hate to be the one to burst his bubble, what choice do I have?
I stay silent, testing out words on my tongue before I say them.Saylor, stop.Except I don’t want him to stop.We can’t do this.Then to his prior point, why am I here?
“Come on,” Saylor says, standing. “I want to show you something.”
“Why does that sound a little dangerous?”
He smiles as he holds out his hand. I look at it—callused, broad, paint still under one thumbnail—and I take it, becauseI’ve lost the ability to say no to this man and I’m not sure when that happened.
He leads me across the yard toward the guesthouse. It sits about fifty yards from the main house, tucked behind a hedge that’s overgrown but still vaguely architectural. My mother’s landscaper used to shape it into something geometric, though it’s since returned to its natural state of chaos, which is honestly an improvement.
“I wanted to get in here,” Saylor says, nodding at the door. “But it’s on a separate keypad and the main code didn’t work.”
