“That sounds great.” She sounds almost relieved. “Can I help at all?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
She gives me a fake glare. “On second thought, maybe I’ll watch. Admire the view. After all, you’re hard to resist.”
She can’t know how much I like the idea of her admiring me.
I pull out eggs, spinach and some different veggies, and then move on to what I need for crepes. Anytime I glance at Kayla, it looks like she’s cataloguing where everything goes, memorizing her new environment.
Her new home.
Kayla Carville’s new home.
I could groan in embarrassment. How is Kayla living here? It’s not a man cave, but it’s closer to an actual cave than the mansion she grew up in.
“This must be a shock for you,” I say as I start chopping vegetables. “You’ve gone from a palace to a shack.”
“This isn’t a shack,” she says, looking around. “It’s comfortable. And I didn’t live in a palace. I’ve lived in a condo for the last five, six years?”
“What was it like?”
“It was in Midtown, in Atlanta. It had wall-to-ceiling windows and floors you weren’t supposed to wear shoes on. It looked like something out of a magazine.”
“That sounds nice,” I say, feeling worse about my dingy apartment by the minute.
“It was … what people expected. Curated and monochromatic. I never sat on the couch without smoothing thepillows afterward. I never burned anything in the oven or left dishes in the sink. It was perfect.”
I sauté the veggies first, just enough to take the bite off, then pour the eggs over top and let it all set together. I steal a quick glance at Kayla. “And you … liked that?”
“I hated it. That’s not how a woman should feel in her home. Like she’s not safe to make a mistake.”
An alarm sounds in my head.
I set down my spatula and fix my full attention on her.
“Kayla, you are always safe to make a mistake here. With me. I know you said this living arrangement works for you, but if you change your mind, you need to know that whereverweare, you’re safe to make a mistake.”
She leans back like the words packed a punch. And then she blinks a few times and fans herself. “Whew. You are really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?”
“I’m not trying to seduce you.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “No, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me fall for you.”
I grab the pan and take it over to her, shaking my head all the way. I let the omelet fold onto her plate. “Do you know better?”
She holds my eye, the corner of her mouth barely curving up. “Maybe not.”
Soon, we’re sitting at the table with crepes, berries, and omelets, and I hear Kayla’s stomach growl. I’m starving, too, but I’m surprised when she takes a moment to stare at the food. She looks like she’s giving herself a pep talk. Psyching herself up to eat something she really doesn’t want to.
I’m a good cook, but maybe she hates eggs and feels bad admitting it? The idea that she doesn’t feel comfortable enough to tell me sends a sharp jab somewhere behind my ribs.
Between my bites, I notice her cut a small piece of her crepe with a knife. She carefully brings it up, like the movement requires intense, concentrated effort.
I look down when she covers her mouth to take a bite. It feels like it’s taking more courage for her to sit down to breakfast than it did to marry me.
“I’m going to pour myself a glass of milk,” I say, getting up and purposefully keeping my eyes off her plate. “Can I get you some?” I pull open the fridge, like I’m looking over my options instead of trying to give her space to eat without an audience. “Or I have juice. Or coconut water.”
I’m making such a show of looking around, I think she must know what I’m doing. But after a pause that I hope is her swallowing food, she says, “I’d love coconut water. Thank you.”
