“Food Network,” I quip because it’s partially true. “My nana also taught me a lot. She liked to cook and bake Texas-style, so I grew up doing that with her. I also did most of the cooking for my family, so anything she didn’t teach me, I taught myself. Then when I got married, my husband demanded that whenever we were home, I cook healthy meals for him.”
“There is a lot in that last statement I want to question.”
I meet her eyes briefly before turning back to the stove. Quiet Stella is incredibly perceptive. “That goes for both of us. Unfortunately, I didn’t question enough when I should have. Yet another life lesson: Don’t change who you are for someone else and never let anyone steal your backbone. Like those girls in school. They only have power over you if you let them have it.”
“You said something similar to me that day, but it’s easier said than done.”
“Of course it is. If it were easy, it wouldn’t take courage. But courage gives you strength, and strength gives you confidence, and confidence can take you anywhere.”
She gives me a soft smile, the kind that says she likes that, and then we get to cooking. Talking about food, and while the pot pie bakes in the oven, I grade papers while she does her homework. It’s the weirdest relationship I’ve ever ventured into. Obviously, I love kids or I wouldn’t have become a teacher. But still, weird.
That said, I had a lot of fun today, and if the smiles and giggles coming from Stella were any indication, I think she did too.
When the pot pie is done, I remove it from the oven and set it down on my stove for it to rest. “I think your dad will like this.”
“He’ll love it. It’s his favorite. Probably because my mom used to make it a lot.”
Something stirs inside me. “They loved each other a lot.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but she nods all the same. “Yeah. They met in college and had me a few years later. Said I was the best surprise that’s ever happened to them.”
“I believe that.”
“I don’t remember my mom much at all, and I don’t remember my dad before she died. I just know he was different. At least that’s what my grandma and uncles say.”
I believe that too.
“He blames himself for her death.”
“Oh. That’s…” I don’t know what that is. The worst thing I’ve ever heard?
Unfortunately, all this depressing fun bursts like an over-inflated bubble when Stella’s phone chimes with a text. She picks it up and informs me her dad just got home. We peek out the window and sure enough, it’s still raining.
“He offered to come get me but said he’d be a few minutes. He’s on a work call.”
“That’s fine. I’ll walk you. This is heavy and hot. I don’t want you to carry it.”
Armed with oven mitts and a forty-pound tank that I swear could have single-handedly defeated the Nazis in World War II in my hands, otherwise known as a bubbling hot Dutch oven filled with pot pie, Stella leads the way, holding the umbrella over both of us as we march across the lawns to her side porch, where she punches in a code, and the door unlocks.
I follow her, my heart in my throat, hammering so fast it’s a wonder I can breathe past it. She shakes out the umbrella, places it against the wall by the back door, then we track through the mudroom, back hall, past a half bath and a large butler’s pantry—my total wet dream—until we reach the kitchen where I set the heavy as hell pot down on the stove.
“Wowzers, that’s heavier than the pig I had to carry during pledge week,” I gripe. Stella throws me a confused look, and I wave her away. “Never mind and may you never know about it. You shouldn’t have to reheat it if you’re eating it within the next half an hour. Today was a lot of fun. Thanks for cooking with me, and I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” I remove my mitts and head back in the direction I came.
Stella takes a step toward me, trying to cut off my escape, appearing anxious and crestfallen. “You’re not staying to eat it? You have to stay and eat it with us.”
I shake my head. “Nope. It’s all for you. Let me know how it turned out.”
“But what will you eat?” Stella persists, following me as I walk backward in the direction of the mudroom, wanting to get out of here before I see him. “There is so much of it, we’ll never be able to finish it all.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have plenty I can eat. But you did great today. You’re seriously a natural chef. Think about what you want to try for Wednesday, and we’ll make it happen. Just text me tomorrow so I can figure out what ingredients we’ll need to get.”
“We did all this cooking, and you’re not even going to try it? That’s not right. No, you have to stay. You have to.”
I open my mouth to argue with that when I sense him behind me. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as an unwelcome current zaps through me. Him. So much for my clean escape.
“Dad, tell her. She has to stay and try this.”
Yup. I was right. I feel him brush past me. His blue scrubs-clad arm grazes my shoulder, and it’s like that current of energy finds the spark it was searching for and now my entire body ignites. Just from that one simple touch. I flex my hands, trying to shake it off while wondering if it would look ridiculous to turn and make a run for it.
I don’t want to see him. Not after last night.
Let me amend that, not after the way it ended last night.
The stinging force of his rejection shook me harder than it should have. I’m not even sure what I wanted him to do, but shutting me out—literally—felt like the ultimate blow my already rocked self-esteem did not need. He made me feel cheap and used. Even a simple good night or a stupid wave would have sufficed, but what I could see in his expression and then him slamming his window shut told me everything I needed to know.
Now I need to get away from him before I do something crazy like kick him in the nuts. In front of his kid. I maintain my focus on Stella, though I feel Landon’s eyes burning into me like a blowtorch.
“Stella, if she wants to go,” he says, his too hopeful voice trailing off at the end, and yup, now is the time to run. Asshole. Heartless wanker. Sexy devil. I’m not a girl who hates all that well, but yeah…
“Right. Have a great night.”
I spin to flee just as a hand grasps my arm, stopping me.
“What I was going to say is, if she wants to go, we’ll have to find a way to stop her.”
My eyes close, and my breath freezes in my lungs. “That’s not what you were going to say,” I mumble so only he can hear.
“No,” he replies in the same low tone I used. “But it’s what I should have said. It’s what I was thinking. Stella is absolutely right. You cooked all this food for us, and I’m being rude. Stay and eat with us. You don’t even have to talk to me.”
What is he doing to me? And why am I powerless to stop him? Run, Elle. Save yourself.
“Please,” he tacks on, and that’s my undoing. His stupid please.
I twist and peek up, finding his beseeching green eyes hidden behind his glasses. So handsome I could die just from looking at him.
“It’s just dinner.”