She pushed up a pair of thick-lensed glasses on her nose. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup and her hair sat in a messy bun on the top of her head. She gestured to her light-blue sweatshirt and black yoga pants. “Welcome to my Friday-night outfit. What you see is what you get.”
All he could say was, “Wow.”
***
Harper stilled. She’d hesitated to change her clothes and remove her makeup, including her false eyelashes. No one except for her best friends ever saw her this dressed down. Even her mother hadn’t since the day Harper moved out of the house six months after she’d graduated from college. But her eyes were dry and scratchy from her contacts, and frankly, she was getting tired of the fake-eyelash trend. She also didn’t want to ruin any of her nice clothes by spilling or splashing food on them while she cooked. Besides, this was Rusty, who wasn’t exactly the epitome of fashion himself. And what she’d told him was true—this was her Friday-night outfit. More often than not lately, her favorite one of the week.
But his reaction set her off-kilter, and she was unexpectedly nervous. “Is that ‘Wow, you look great’ or ‘Wow, what a mess’?”
“Definitely great.”
That not only made her smile, but now she was completely relaxed. A welcome change from the stress of the past few days.More like the past four months.
He tilted his head. “Didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“I’ve worn them for years.” She padded over to the fridge in her pink flip-flops and opened the door, then pushed up the plain black frames. “Since second grade.” Grabbing a bottle of Riesling, she added, “Would you like a drink?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I’m, uh, driving.”
She reconsidered the wine and put it back in the fridge. “Let’s see. It’s been a while since I had a chance to get groceries, but I think I can cobble something together. How about minestrone soup with crusty bread?” She grabbed a bottle of red wine and a wedge of Parmesan cheese and set them on the counter.
“Minestrone... I ain’t sure I’ve had it before.”
“Do you like vegetable soup?”
“Sure do.”
She opened the freezer. “Then you’ll love this.”
“Need any help?” he asked.
“Can you operate a cheese grater?”
Chuckling, he said, “I reckon I can manage.”
Soon she had water boiling for shell pasta while Rusty grated the Parmesan cheese. She sauteed some garlic in olive oil, added some onion and carrots, then put them all in a big pot with beans—frozen green and canned pinto—and two cans of Italian-seasoned tomatoes. Whatever leftovers she had would last her part of next week.
When she turned around, Rusty had a nice, neat pile ofshredded Parm in the small blue ceramic bowl she’d given him. She washed her hands in the sink on the island, then grabbed the small remote on the corner of the island counter and turned on the sound system. The same soft rock station Rusty had had on in the truck played in the background.
As the soup and pasta cooked and the oven preheated for the bread, she poured two tumblers of iced tea and handed one to Rusty before sitting down next to him.
“Thanks.” He took a sip. “Nice and sweet.”
“That’s the way I like it.” When he tilted his head at her again, she said, “What?”
“I’m plum surprised, that’s all.”
“That I can cook?” She set the glass on the countertop.
“Well, yeah.”
She moved to sit cross-legged on the stool. “I don’t mind cooking. I just don’t have time for it. I’d rather bake anyway. Breads, cakes, cookies. If it’s a carb and you can bake it, I’m there. I can’t remember the last time I baked anything, though. Years, probably.”
“Too busy?”
She nodded and thought about the past week. Not only had it been long, but it was also lousy. Another reason she couldn’t wait to get out of her real-estate clothes. She’d lost three sales over the past two days, and while the market had picked up a little since August, she’d only made one sale.
And then there was Jack. After she’d blocked him on her phone, he tried to reach her through social media. She blocked him there, too, but not until after reading his last message:I’m sorry about what happened between us. Can we talk?
