"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that."
"You needed the rest. Don't be sorry."
I stood, folded the blanket, set it on top of the pillow. "Well. Thank you for letting me crash here."
"No worries." He flipped over a paper, tapped the end of his pen to his temple as he studied it. "You should do it more often."
I stared at him. "I should—what?"
He dropped the paper and pen. "Look, I'm not equipped for morning conversations. I can't talk at this time of day and—"
"That explains so much," I murmured. "If only you'd said something sooner."
"—you talk all the time, which is obviously a problem, but you should stay here more often. You can use the Wi-Fi and, you know, your crockpot won't short out my electrical system. It's better than spending the nights at Midge's place, especially after you've been painting. Can't be good to breathe all that in. You have to air those rooms out. And the hot water, for fuck's sake, Jas. I'm not gonna insist you do anything because god knows that will bite me in the balls but I think you should stay here. Every night. If you want. That's all."
"Not equipped to talk in the morning," I repeated. "Mmhmm."
"What was that?"
I shook my head as I retied my ponytail. "Have you eaten breakfast?"
He felt it necessary to look worried. "Please, Jasper. Don't bake anything. Please."
"No baking involved." I breezed past him to grab the shoes I'd left beside the door. "Just toasting. I'm gonna run next door and grab a few ingredients—"
"I have everything you'd need."
"Probably not." I stepped into one shoe, then the other. "I like a certain bread. Oh, and my avocados should be perfectly ripe."
He shouted something as I closed the door but I didn't worry over it. We couldn't have him overdoing it on the words. Not this early in the morning.
I filled a reusable shopping bag with everything I required for fancy toast and then stopped into my room for a change of clothes. My tote bag was ready to go with my regular showering-at-Linden's gear, which made it easy.
I gave the room another glance, saying out loud, "This is enough. This is fine."
Because I couldn't move into another man's house the day after my divorce was finalized and years after it became fact. Regardless of his invite and the devastating sweetness of his gruff, grumbly way of asking. Really, I couldn't. Even if part of me wanted to.
The other part, as always, needed to shove him off. Accepting that kind of help wasn't something I could do, even if it looked tempting on the surface. Sure, it sounded great and chances were good I'd get some decent sleep if I didn't have to worry about whether the heating system would short out the electrical overnight and kill me in a ball of fire, but at what cost? I'd exchange one problem for another, a fiery death for Linden's steadfast concern for me.
Because, of course, that was completely unnecessary of him.
Very nice and warm-fuzzy inducing, and fall-off-a-cliff foreign to me but completely unnecessary. So unnecessary.
I pushed open the door from Linden's deck and hefted the shopping bag over my head. "Time for toast."
Still stationed at the table, Linden pinned me with one arched eyebrow. He didn't respond, instead staring as I set down my tote and unpacked the grocery items, that eyebrow busy climbing into his forehead.
"What are you in the mood for this morning?" I asked.
A rough laugh rasped out of him. "Ask a different question, Peach."
I had to bite my lips together because he didn't need to know how much I enjoyed those words. "I have avocado, banana, eggs, a bit of brie, and a nice lemon curd. Just tell me if you hate any of those things."
"I'd hate those things all together so please tell me that's not the direction we're going."
I put my hands on my hips. "Seriously, Lin. Why would I do that?"
"I can't explain any of your baking choices."
I grinned. "Lucky for you, fancy toast is not baking."
While Linden shifted through his papers, I introduced myself to his kitchen appliances. I needed a minute or two to contemplate his retro two-slice toaster versus the high-end range with gas burners. I didn't need to broil the bread but it wasn't a matter of need nearly as much as want. I wanted that bread broiled even if I knew the odds of charring it and setting off the smoke detectors were high. I was willing to deal with some blackened crusts. I didn't mind that, even if I rarely used the broiler back home in D.C. because it was too much trouble to babysit the bread. Who had the time to supervise bread? Not me. Definitely not me.
But now I could sit by the stove, watching and waiting. I could risk the crusts, the smoke alarms. I could do this. I could do things I'd assumed were off-limits to me. It would be amazing, it would be perfect. The best toast I'd ever made.
I dropped two thick slices of sourdough into the toaster instead.
I didn't know how Linden's oven worked. How hot it got, how fast it cooked. And I didn't want to ruin everything while he watched. I could scrape a little extra color from the toast but I couldn't serve him charcoal and pretend everything was cool. I knew what to expect from the toaster and I knew it wouldn't give Linden another reason to doubt my skills.
I'd use the broiler another time. It wasn't going anywhere. I'd get to it.
Once I had the toast prepared, I swung a glance to Linden. He was focused on the same paper, leading me to believe it was an exceptionally difficult topic or he didn't trust me with his appliances. Possibly both.
"Do you have any big knives? Something long and sharp I can cut these—"
He pushed away from the table. "I'm not giving you a long, sharp knife, Jasper. I'll do a lot of things for you but that's not one of them. Sorry but no."
I had a huge argument ready to go. Massive. There was a slide deck hot in my head. I had so much to say about this but then it just—poof—evaporated. There was a spot behind the argument, beyond the self-preservation, where I wanted someone to insist.
It was a terrifying spot to revisit because my ex-husband had insisted we were perfect for each other, my mother had insisted she was doing her best, my father insisted he loved me more than anything in the world. Even if they all believed what they'd said, they still let me down. They were still wrong. Why was I to believe Linden's insistence would turn out any differently?
"Okay. What are we cutting?" He dropped his hands to my waist and leaned in to inspect my creations. "This looks surprisingly edible."
I wiggled my shoulders. "Fancy toast is my jam."
He laughed into my hair. "That's adorable."
"Now, if you'd point me in the direction of a knife…"
Yanking open a drawer to the left, he asked, "Tell me how you want it cut."
Admittedly, the knife he retrieved could double as a samurai sword and it was possible I would've taken my finger off with that thing. "Triangles. Please."
He cut the toast and shifted beside me to rinse the knife when he was finished. "All right, then. Tell me what we have here."
My gaze fixed on the plates because I didn't trust myself to look up at Linden right now without asking whether it was possible for him to insist without breaking my heart, I said, "This is almond butter, banana, honey, and chopped walnuts. That one is avocado, soft boiled egg, and some of the hot honey sauce I found in your spice cabinet when I was looking for crushed red pepper flakes. It's fine if you hate it. I'll just—"