“Tell me you aren’t trying to make some fancy recipe with a hundred ingredients again,” she moans. “And that you aren’t doing it in my beautiful, clean, spotless kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, just keep that image in your head.”
She fakes a wail, and it makes me laugh.
I put her on speakerphone and sit the phone by the spatula. I locate the strainer I saw earlier and plop it into the sink.
“I promise you’ll never know I was here when you get home,” I say. “I’ll have this place spic-and-span.”
“You better.”
The pasta is heavy as I lug it to the sink. Steam rolls off the drained spaghetti and coats my face in starchy water droplets.
“May I ask what possessed you to make yourself dinner?” she asks coyly. “Don’t you usually just make toast?”
I give the strainer a little shake.
She doesn’t need me to tell her. She’s figured it out on her own. I’m sure that in her little romantic world, she’s already shipped her neighbor and me together in some Disney-esque storyline.
Poor girl.
“Well, I was thinking,” I say as I dump the pasta in the sauce, “that if I can’t pay Boone back with money, I have to do something. And spaghetti is classy … and cheap.”
The words come out nonchalantly as if this is a normal course of events—like I’m the girl who makes an apple pie for a bake sale. But, truth be told, I’m not Holly Homemaker. I can throw something together and usually better than this, but it’s not going to be gourmet.
But what else do you do for a guy like Boone Mason?
I did a little research on Google last night. While Libby has talked about Boone off and on, she left out a few details—like they’re ridiculously wealthy and very connected.
The entire family, based on my “research,” is beautiful. They’re filthy rich, and they seem to use their photogenic qualities and large bank accounts to benefit a ton of charities in the state.
It’s overwhelming … and a little humiliating when I remember why, exactly, I know of them.
Libby laughs. “Just make sure you cook the meat all the way through. You don’t want to kill him as a thank you.”
“Don’t jinx me.”
The oven timer blares its warning for me to get the garlic bread before it burns. I grab a pot holder and take the pan out. Scents of garlic and oregano fill the air as I set the bread down on the counter.
The center of the little toasts looks a little white. I poke at it with the tip of my finger to try to tell whether it’s Parmesan or ice. It’s not cold but not actually hot either.
Crap.
“It can’t be ice,” I mutter, pressing into the soft bread again.
“What can’t be ice?”
I sigh. “I had the garlic bread in for seventeen minutes, which was exactly halfway in the suggested cooking time. It feels warm-ish but …” I poke it again. “It has to be done, right? Seventeen minutes is plenty of time.”
Libby giggles. “Did you put it in during or after you preheated the oven?”
“Um …”
“Why didn’t you just buy dinner somewhere and put it in dishes and pretend you made it?”
I gasp. “You’re a freaking genius. A little too late with that wisdom, though, since I’m already elbow deep in spaghetti sauce.” I look down at my arm to see a streak of red going from my wrist and up my forearm. “Literally.”
“I would pay money—big money, to see you like this.”
I turn back to the stove again. “Keep in mind that I’m in your kitchen.”
“Yeah, good point. I don’t want to see any of this.”
“Didn’t think so.” I grab a slotted spoon and stir the sauce around. The pan is sizzling, so I turn the heat down. “On a good note, I talked to Caroline Kapowski this morning.”
“Who is she?”
“The woman I’m going to work for in Hawaii. She’s so sweet, Lib. I love her already. She was signing up her two girls for surfing lessons once school is out and wanted to know if I wanted to take them too. Isn’t that nice?”
“So nice. You do know that I’ll be visiting you as much as possible, right?”
“You better.”
My face lights up as I think about the Kapowskis. Mr. K ushered me into his office where his wife works, doing paperwork and reading old romance novels during the day. They told me that they loved having me work for them but knew Kapowski Hardware wasn’t my end goal. And, as Mrs. Kapowski noted, they suspected my personal life was a bit difficult.
God love them.
Their daughter had mentioned needing a nanny, and they thought of me. Would I be interested? It took everything I had not to cry in the middle of their office.
I grin as I stir the pasta again. “I still can’t believe this happened to me. This whole thing was just dropped in my lap. What are the odds?”
“Good things happen to good people. And you’re a good person.”
“I think we need to temper that confidence,” I say as I head to the refrigerator. “Start talking like that, you might believe it.”
“I do believe it.”
“Well, I hope that works out for you.”
She laughs. “You’re going to be fine.”
Let’s hope.
“So, did your husband take you out last night or what?” I ask.
“He did, and it was wonderful. We went to this seafood place on the water and had the best pinot grigio and mussels. And then we even danced a little to live music by the marina.”
My hand falls from the refrigerator door, and I lean against the counter instead.
She recounts the night with her husband, her voice softening as she loses herself in the details of how he held her hand as they walked down the street like he did when they first started dating. She looked into his eyes and saw a tenderness that she hasn’t seen in a long time. She fell in love with him again under the moonlight.
I listen to
