“It must be hard,” Simon said quietly, and she was grateful he didn’t try to slap a “look on the bright side” plaster on what felt, at the moment, like a gaping emotional wound.
“Yes, it is, and will be. But at least Mum seems in a good place emotionally.” Olivia thought of how serene her mother had seemed this morning, and then how she’d completely forgotten any mention of Simon. That had jarred Olivia, the obvious lapse, one her mother wasn’t even aware of. How many more would there be? And how had she not seen them before?
“So, dinner,” Olivia said brightly. “Would you like some spaghetti with a jar of sauce? Sorry it’s not more inspired.”
“Your cupcakes are inspired.”
“And yet you haven’t tried one.”
“I will, I promise.” His eyes glinted at her, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “And yes, I’d love pasta and sauce. But why don’t you let me cook? You do enough work in the kitchen as it is.”
“Oh…” Olivia felt jolted. A man cook for her in her own kitchen? It was a strange and yet surprisingly pleasing thought.
“That is, if you don’t mind me moving around your space, using your stuff,” Simon said with a grin.
“No, I don’t. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.” She took a seat at the tiny kitchen table while Simon began hunting around for pots and pans, finding them with alacrity.
It was wonderfully companionable, to chat about nothing important while Simon put a pot of water on to boil, and found some garlic and mushrooms to add to the sauce, chopping everything with brisk precision.
“You seem like you know your way around a kitchen,” Olivia remarked. He’d also found a bottle of wine and asked if he could open it; now they were both sipping from glasses of red while Simon continued with his preparations.
“I suppose I do, a bit. I’ve lived on my own for most of my adult life, and awhile ago I got tired of takeaways and noodles in a mug.”
“I’m ashamed to admit I cannot say the same.”
“You do enough in the kitchen, with all your baking. I can certainly understand why you’d be reluctant to make a big meal at the end of the day.”
“I suppose I couldn’t see the point, when it was just for me.”
“True. I got over that by having people around for a meal as often as I could. I’m better with people around me.”
“So you’re not an introvert?” Olivia teased.
“Oh, I am, undoubtedly, too much so. I need people to bring me out of myself.”
“Hmm.” She took a sip of wine, mulling that over. “I wouldn’t have thought you were an introvert. You seem so…sociable, I suppose. Friendly and interested in everything.”
“I try to be. Life is short. I want to enjoy as much of it as I can.” A bleak note had entered his voice, making Olivia wonder.
“That’s true enough,” she said after a moment. “And a good motto to live by.”
“I try. I don’t always succeed.”
“I don’t suppose anyone does.” This had all become rather deep, but she didn’t mind. She was enjoying simply sitting in her own kitchen, watching Simon cook. His long, lean fingers flew dextrously as he chopped vegetables and then sautéed them in a pan, the mouth-watering aromas of garlic and mushrooms soon wafting through the air and filling the space.
Outside night had fallen like a velvet curtain, pierced only by the twinkle of the fairy lights that spangled the high street. Even Dr Jekyll was contributing to the feel-good factor, twining about Olivia’s legs before leaping into her lap and settling there with a loud, rattling purr. She stroked his fur and sipped her wine, nearly completely content. Like Simon had just said, she wanted to enjoy this moment for what it was, without looking back or wishing for more. Olivia leaned her head back and closed her eyes, revelling in the easy pleasure of simply being.
“Here. Try this.”
She opened her eyes, startled, to see Simon placing a small plate of bruschetta in front of her, heaped with chopped tomatoes and flecked with basil.
“When did you make this!” Olivia exclaimed. “I didn’t even notice…”
“You had some leftover baguette that was going stale. It was easy.”
“And delicious.” She took a bite, enjoying the explosion of flavour. This man was a keeper. He could cook, he was kind and funny and thoughtful, and she was, Olivia could not deny, rather desperately attracted to him. She hoped he felt the same, but sometimes Simon could be so hard to read.
As she took another bite of bruschetta she watched him stir the pasta, his tall, lanky form somehow seeming right in her tiny kitchen. His jumper, she noticed, had holes in the elbows and was coming unravelled at the hem. His jeans were faded, his hair still a little long, and he’d taken off his boots and was wearing mismatched socks. He looked a little bit like a hobo—a handsome, lovable hobo, because Simon’s quirkiness was all part of his undeniable appeal.
But what was her appeal? What did he see in her? Olivia knew she could stand to lose ten pounds or even a stone, her hair went frizzy at the least provocation, and while she could bake a host of goodies, so far Simon didn’t seem to particularly like cupcakes. She was kind enough, she supposed, and she had a decent sense of humour, but really…what might Simon see in her?
Why was she even doing this? Romance wasn’t a pros and cons list, surely. You didn’t tot up all your good qualities and hope they were enough to make the grade. But what was it then? It amazed Olivia that at her age she still needed to ask this question; she hadn’t figured out the answer. What made a person worth the risk? What made you fall in love?
“What are you thinking about?”
