Page 64 of Falling for Keeps

Nope. Totally dry. Thanks for checking in, though. You’re a good friend.

Carson

Is there going to be a follow up date?

Emma

Yes.

He doesn’t reply for the rest of the night.

Carson

Sunday morning, I leave Penny with my mom and head out in search of flowers. The market has a thin selection, but I choose a bouquet with vibrant fall colors, because it seems like something Emma would like, and it reminds me of her auburn hair.

Hair that was curled Friday night during her date with the wet blanket librarian. She could not have looked more bored if she’d tried. Was he listing off the Dewey Decimal System for her? Reciting old poetry? Cataloguing his recent reads?

Okay, not fair. I’m sure that’s the sort of thing that rocks Emma’s socks.

Should I read something? Would that give us more to talk about?

No. I’m being crazy. We always have plenty to talk about, and I’m not trying to date this woman, anyway.

I’m bringing her flowers because I’m a sucker for punishment. I want to see her.

I have an inkling Library Man won’t, and today of all days, someone should give this woman flowers.

I pull into my mom’s driveway and slide out of my black Lexus, bringing the flowers with me. As my feet hit the pavement to cross the street, I second-guess the wisdom of this, but it’s got to be a hard day for her.

Footsteps inside the house respond to my knocking. My heart races immediately.

Emma opens the door, revealing her hair back in a claw clip and a mustard yellow apron over her clothes. The scent of warm baked goods billows out. “Carson.”

“Hi. Cute pumpkins.”

Emma looks confused before she realizes I’m talking about the array of different-sized pumpkins on her porch. Medium, large, the tiny little cute ones you pick up at the grocery store. They’re artfully displayed on a bale of hay and match the burlap wreath on her front door.

I push the flowers forward like an awkward kid during my first dance. What’s going on here? I used to be so smooth. Now I’m rusty and robotic. “These are for you.”

She grows still, looking down at the flowers. “What for?”

My throat seizes up. In theory, it’s a reasonable thing to do—give someone flowers on the day their mom died. Maybe I’m crossing a line if she didn’t immediately catch on. Maybe it’s such a hard day for her that something like this will only make it worse. I flounder. “I thought today might be difficult for you. They’re so you know that I’m—we, I mean—we are thinking of you.”

She glances over my shoulder, looking for the other part of the we.

“They’re from Penny, too,” I hurry to add.

Emma takes the bouquet, her eyes misting. “That’s really thoughtful.”

Time to ease the tension. It’s thick in the air, tight and thinly stretched between us. “Cute apron. You putting Sour Dan to work in there? I’m still waiting on that jalapeño cheddar.”

She laughs. It sounds watery, which breaks my heart a little. “No. I’m making the chicken pot pie now, so it’s ready to go tonight. Actually—wait here.” She takes a step back, then returns, opening the door wider. “Come in. It’s cold and you’re letting the heat out.”

Her clumsiness is endearing.

She starts toward the kitchen. “I made way too many cookies. You should take some home.”

I step inside. Evidence of her baking fills the house. The kitchen is a mess, spilled cocoa powder and flour on the counter, eggshells in a heap. Stacks of chocolate cookies line a cooling rack and fill my nose with the familiar, homey smell.