“Not at all.” He turns back to me. “How are you? Do you want a drink? Beer? Water? Abby has wine to go with dinner.”
“Beer’s good for me.” I follow him into the kitchen, looking around and admiring the finishing touches they’ve put on the place and the Christmas decorations—the tree in the corner, red and green and gold bauble ornaments hanging overhead in the doorway to the kitchen, a snowman candle on the counter. Last time I was here, there were still boxes stacked in corners. “I see you’ve finally moved in all the way.”
He chuckles, popping the cap off a beer with the bottle opener he pulls from a drawer and passing it to me before opening one for himself. “Yeah. Abby had a bunch of projects all in a row right after we moved in, then her mom had to get reevaluated for her social security benefits, so that required a lot of Abby’s time taking her to and from appointments and helping her fill out the paperwork, plus extra time helping her with the usual day to day stuff because the extra stress of the reevaluation made it impossible for her to function at the level she normally does.” He shrugs. “The first three months after we moved were the worst. And she’s particular about certain things and didn’t want me unpacking her stuff, otherwise she said she’d never be able to find anything. So it took her a while to get up the energy to finish, but things have calmed down, her mom’s doing better, so Abby’s doing better.” His face grows serious. “She’s started seeing a therapist too. It’s been helpful.”
My eyebrows jump at that revelation. “That’s good.” Lance doesn’t usually share a lot of Abby’s personal stuff. She’s very private. I know her mom has health problems and needs a lot of help, but I don’t really know details, because Lance always shrugs and says it’s Abby’s story to tell. And as much as I like Abby, she and I have never been close enough for me to feel comfortable prying her life story out of her. What I know, I’ve pieced together from the tiny bits of information like this one that have slipped out over the years.
The girls drift into the kitchen, a loud ball of chatter and laughter, and Lance and I move to the dining table to get out of their way. Abby offers drinks all around, and then pulls a pan of lasagna out of the oven.
She cuts it into pieces, stuffs a spatula down the side, and sets out a stack of plates on the counter next to it. “Alright. We won’t fit comfortably around the table with five of us, so we’re doing this buffet style. There’s salad and dressing here,” she gestures to the large silver bowl overflowing with greens and the smaller bowls of salad toppings arrayed next to it plus two choices of salad dressing, “and Hannah brought dessert. Dig in!”
Lance and I hang back, letting the women serve themselves first, which they do without hesitation, Abby gesturing for Megan and Hannah to go first. When she turns to us, Lance waves his hand at her. “Go ahead. We can wait two more minutes for you to serve yourselves.” She gives him a pretty smile before picking up her plate.
Should I ask Lance about working for me now? I fidget with my beer bottle, turning it around and around on the table. Or should I wait until after dinner?
With an eyebrow raised, Lance glances from my beer bottle to my face. “You that hungry?”
I force out a laugh. “Something like that.”
He waves for me to head for the food. “Dig in.”
Suppressing my sigh, I stand and do that, annoyed with myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity when I had it. Asking him while the girls are off planning and talking would’ve been the perfect time. I don’t really want to ask in front of an audience.
Maybe I’ll get the chance after dinner.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hannah
“Matty looks nervous,” Megan whispers, leaning in close to me. “Is he planning to propose and wants Lance’s help, do you think?”
With a snort and a roll of my eyes, I shake my head, my mouth full of salad. “No,” I manage after I swallow. “That’s not it.”
Megan wrinkles her nose. “What? You still haven’t managed to lock that down?”
Abby chokes on her wine. “Are you serious, Megan? You’re one to talk.”
Waving a dismissive hand, Megan puts her nose in the air. “You’re assuming that I want to get married,” she says airily. “I’m not sure that’s for me.”
Abby points at me with her fork. “And who says Hannah wants to get married? They’ve been living together for, what?” She looks at me. “Four years?” I nod. “Maybe they’re perfectly content with their life as it is.”
With a shrug, Megan scoops a bite of lasagne into her mouth. “Fine. Good point.” She moans as she eats another bite. “I’m probably going to regret eating this later, but it’s so good.”
I look over Megan’s trim form. She looks the same as always. Is she on a diet for some reason? But she doesn’t respond to my quizzical look, and if she wants to lose weight, who am I to judge? Maybe she and Chris are planning a winter trip to a tropical island and she wants to look awesome in her bikini.
Or, hell, maybe she’s projecting, and they’re going to elope, or she’s already engaged and not telling anyone since her husband is a pro football player with a certain amount of media attention, so she’s watching her calories so she looks great in her wedding dress.
With a shrug, I take a bite too. “This is really good, Abby,” I say around a mouthful of pasta, molten cheese, and tomato sauce.
Smiling, Abby ducks her head. “It’s store bought. But thanks.”
Matt and
