"You barely ate breakfast, and you skipped lunch,” he says, taking a glass baking dish out of the fridge and walking over to the oven.
"I’ll be fine if I have water,” I say, and he slams the oven door shut.
"My grandmother made a chicken potpie, and it will be done in about thirty-five minutes," he tells me, his voice tight. “Did you want a glass of water?"
"Yes, please,” I say, tapping my finger on my leg as he walks over to the fridge and opens it.
"Would you like lemonade instead?" he asks. I don’t want to tell him that I’ve never had lemonade. I want to tell him that I’m not sure I would like it.
"I don’t think I’ve ever tried lemonade,” I say softly, and he turns to get a glass. He pours halfway and then comes to me.
"Try it,” he says, handing me the glass. “I’m not a fan, but you never know."
He hands me the glass with the light yellow drink. My hand comes up to grab the glass, and our fingers graze each other. The heat goes right up my arm as I move my hand away from his and put the glass to my lips to take a sip. The tanginess hits my tongue right away. “It’s good,” I say, looking at it, “but do you think I can just have water?”
He laughs, grabbing the glass. “It’s the bitterness that I hate.” He walks over to the fridge and grabs a water bottle out of it, then returns to me and hands me the bottle. “Do you want to go sit outside while we wait?"
I try to hide the smile that spreads across my face by looking down, but his finger reaches out and lifts my chin. “Don’t hide that smile,” he says softly, his finger remaining under my chin. “When you smile. I mean, really smile," he says, “your eyes light up to a green that looks almost a crystal blue."
I look at him, not sure what to say. “I never noticed.” I speak the truth, but I leave out that it’s because I’ve never had a reason to smile.
"Let’s go out." His hand slips from my chin, and he grasps my hand, pulling me out the door toward the backyard. I have to stop walking when I look at his oasis. The in-ground pool looks as big as an Olympic pool.
He turns to his right, walking next to the house on his covered patio until he comes to the swing. The same swing is in the front and made me want to run to it and sit down when I saw it.
Little strung-up tea lights are wrapped around the pillars that hold up the roof. “It’s so pretty,” I say in awe of the twinkling lights.
"This," he says, sitting down on the swing, “is what I added to the house once I moved in."
“Did you build it all?” I ask him as I sit down next to him on the white swing. He gently pushes it back and forth with his foot. Our legs touch each other, and I have this sudden urge to hold his hand. Just as he did in the hospital to calm me down.
"I did." He smiles. “I mean, my cousin Reed helped me out, and my dad came by a couple of times." He looks down. “But I wanted to do it by myself. I wanted to be the one who built it."
"Well," I say, looking around at the potted plants and then the small two-seat couch on the other side, “it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen." I smile at him and then sit back as I take in the view.
The trees at the far end are so dense that you can’t even see inside the forest, and the sound of a stream fills the air. “It’s so peaceful." I look around.
"It is," he says. “I’ll come out here and lie down after dinner." I wonder how many women have sat exactly where I am now, thinking this would be their house. That he would be their man.
"Where is Amelia?" I ask, looking at him.
"She’s at the bar,” he says, and I just look at him. “That’s her second job."
"She has two jobs?" I ask, shocked.
“She does. She takes care of my barn during the day, and then she picks up shifts at the bar my aunt owns in town,” he says. “She isn’t happy if she isn’t working. She always has to be doing something, and sitting around just irritates her."
I don’t ask him any more questions. Instead, I look out and bask in the sounds of the night. The chirping of crickets fills the air. “It’s so quiet,” I say. “Like if you close your eyes, you can hear everything."
His phone rings in his pocket, and he gets up. “Food is ready." He holds out his hand for me. I look at him and then the hand, wondering if I should take it or not. "I’m just helping you up,” he says, and I reach out and grab his hand. As soon as I’m standing, I let his hand fall and shake off the feeling of his warmth.
We walk into the house, and my mouth waters at the aroma filling the room. “It smells so good,” I say and almost bite my tongue.
"It should smell good." He walks into the kitchen and grabs two pot holders, opening the oven. “My grandmother made this fresh today,” he says, taking the potpie out of the oven, and I can see the golden crust. “I picked it up when I got your pills,” he says, and my eyes are on the pie the whole time.
He walks over to the cabinet and takes two plates out. Walking back over, he cuts two pieces and puts them on the plates. “Shit,” he says, looking at me. “I forgot to make a salad."
I shake my head at his nervousness. “We don’t need a salad,” I say. “The pie will be enough."
He nods his head and walks over to the island, where he sets the two plates. I don’t move from my spot, afraid to get in the way. “Come and sit,” he says, and only then do I move to walk next to him. He pulls out a stool, and I just look at him, walking to the one beside him as he laughs. “I was holding out the chair for you,” he says, and I look at him shocked.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I say. “Why would you do that?" I ask him, confused.
"It’s a gentlemanly thing to do,” he says, grabbing his fork and scooping a piece of the pie. I look down at the plate in front of me and not only is the pie golden but it’s flaky also. My fork slides right into it, and I blow on it a couple of times before I place it in my mouth.
The buttery goodness just melts onto my tongue, and I try not to groan. "Is it good?" he asks, and I just nod. "She’ll be happy to know."
I eat until my eyeballs are full, but when I look down, I see I’ve only eaten half of what he’s given to me. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten this much food,” I say, looking at him. He gets up to get another piece, and he smiles.
“That was my plate,” he says, and I look down at the half-eaten plate.
“I’m going to finish it,” I say, and he laughs. “I didn’t know,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest as I look down and my hand shakes.
"Hey," he says and then calls me by my name. “Willow." I look up at him, and I have to blink away the tears.
"I don’t mean to waste the food," I start to say. “I’m really sorry, and I know this is your house."
"It’s my fault,” he says. “I should have switched the plates." He comes back without his plate and grabs the plate in front of me. “I’ll just finish eating this." He grabs my plate and fork and finishes what is on my plate. “See, no waste."