"And you're sure you won't let my sister take care of it for you?"
I'd die. I'd drop dead. "That won't be necessary."
"She'd love to do it. She used to live in my aunt's house, actually. Up on the North Shore, in Beverly. Aunt Frannie. She moved to New Mexico a couple of years ago and handed the place off to Maggie because she was in between apartments—and other things. Once Frannie left, Magnolia renovated from top to bottom."
I grabbed the bread when it popped up. "Then she understands how much excitement comes with it."
"She understands how much of a pain in the ass it is."
"That too." Once I finished arranging the cheese and tomatoes, and topping it all with the balsamic glaze, I carried the plates to the table. "I hope this is okay. The burrata wasn't doing what I wanted it to but these tomatoes are really nice and—"
"It's more than okay, Jas." Linden hooked an arm around my waist and yanked me into his lap. He held me tight, his chin on my shoulder and his beard tickling my neck. "You don't have to cook breakfast every day. You think you do but you don't."
I did. I absolutely did. And I could've done so much more. I should've, really. I should be able to plow through Midge's room and finish the porch and get a job and fix my life. Breakfast was the least I could do.
"Not touching that one, are you?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Didn't think so." He gave me a final squeeze before easing me off his lap and patting my ass. "Do you want some coffee?"
There wasn't much of the locally bottled cold brew Linden favored left and he usually went for two or three refills. I shook my head again. "No. I'm all set."
He stared at me for a beat. "You're sure? You haven't had any?"
I pushed his plate toward him. "I'm sure this toast will chill if you don't stop talking and start eating."
I shifted my gaze down, my focus glued to my plate as if the tomatoes would run away if I didn't keep a close eye on them. That was the problem with Linden. Not that tomatoes fled in his presence but that he noticed things. He noticed when I passed on coffee or sidestepped a question about my family or withered a bit at his offerings of assistance. He noticed and I couldn't gather myself up tightly enough to hide from his notice.
That was how I ended up staring at crumbs and running my palms up and down my thighs, the thighs once again clad in the matte black leggings I used to wear on the rarest of occasions. There was something disconcerting about being comfortable in clothes I'd once deemed inappropriate for my body and safe only for tasks like cleaning the house. I couldn't trust that comfort. Couldn't accept it.
And Linden noticed that too. He'd cover my hand with his when he caught me rubbing my legs or tugging the hem of my shirt lower. He'd invent reasons to dress me in his flannels or hoodies, and though he always looked at me like he wanted to take a bite, he never pushed an inch more than I could manage, even when I didn't know the exact location of that limit.
"Well, that was fucking amazing. Again," Linden said, his plate clean. "Here's what I need to know: Do you eat anything else for breakfast? Is it only toast?"
I lifted a shoulder as I chased a tomato through a drop of balsamic. "Nope. Just toast for me. But I should mention that toast isn't just for breakfast. I'm happy eating it all day."
"What about French toast?"
"Not my style. I'm not into sweets as much."
"Then"—he cocked his head to the side, his brows lowered—"does that mean you don't eat banana bread?"
"We're back on the banana bread bullshit?"
"I just want to know if you know what banana bread is supposed to taste like," he said. "Or pecan pie, for that matter."
This would've been a great moment to get up and busy myself with fixing a cup of coffee, but seeing as that wasn't an option I held up my hands and let them fall. "I've tried both, if that's what you're asking. I don't eat them often."
Linden leaned back, nodding slowly. "That explains it."
"If that's what you want to think, I won't stop you."
"What is it about toast?"
I shot him a bratty eyebrow. "I have to justify toast to you? Does that seem right?"
"If you ate toast like a regular person, no, I wouldn't say a thing about it. But you wake up in the morning and say, 'Mmmm, I can't wait to make toast.'"
He made me sound like a cartoon character and that chafed but not enough to stop me from laughing. "I've always loved toast. Even before I realized I could make it fancy, I loved it. There's just something that makes me so happy about a slice of warm, perfectly browned bread."
He gave me another slow nod, like he couldn't comprehend this, like he couldn't comprehend me. A chill chased through my shoulders and I had the urge to drop into a small, quiet place or lash out at him for criticizing this one innocent thing of mine—or both, yes, both, I'd lash out and then I'd leave and—
"I don't know how you do it. It wouldn't occur to me to make all these different things with toast."
It took me a second to gulp down the old fight-then-flight reflex that surfaced more often than I wanted. "It's fun," I said. "And it's inexpensive because you can stretch the ingredients. It's also better than cooking a whole big meal. Especially when it's just me."
"It's not just you."
I glanced at Linden before snatching his plate for washing. He liked to pepper comments like that one into conversation as if they were totally ordinary. As if my life wasn't a million pieces spread out before me and the instruction manual nowhere to be found. As if it wasn't just me and I wasn't making my way all by myself, not anymore.
"Then it's an extra slice of bread or two. No trouble." I pushed away from the table and filed the plates in the dishwasher. "It's not like replacing a porch with the same tools as the pilgrims used."
"Look at you, talking about pilgrims. If you stay here much longer, we won't even be able to find the South in you anymore." He came up behind me, brought his hands to my hips. "I bet I'll find it if I look real hard."
I dropped my chin to my chest and closed my eyes as Linden pushed my hair over one shoulder and dragged his lips along the nape of my neck. "Haven't lost it after all these years away from Georgia. Won't lose it now," I said as defiantly as anyone could in this position. "Even if I do find myself in Plymouth Rock country."
"I could say something about giving you all the Plymouth Rock you want"—he pressed into me, his shaft hard against my backside—"but I don't think you'd appreciate that comment as much as I'd enjoy making it."
A soft laugh shook my shoulders. "Lin, you did say it."
He kissed the nape of my neck then smoothed my hair back into place. He was careful though a bit clumsy about it, obviously unaccustomed to handling long hair. A ripple of tingles moved down my body and I was relieved he couldn't see my face because I knew my smile was delirious.
"Why don't you show me what you've done next door? I want to see everything you've accomplished."