“We need Tad for a reason.”
“Good to know.” He laughed and shook his head as he opened the front door again.
“I’ll make cocoa,” I said, because I needed a task or I was going to make a mistake. “With marshmallows.”
“Careful,” he said, smiling in that way that makes a career woman rethink her entire strategy. “This place is rubbing off on me.”
I turned on the kettle and pulled down the Santa mug and the boring one, and I let myself look at him.
I was stunned and shocked and wildly elated, yes.
Also terrified.
Also hopeful.
Also aware that tomorrow exists and so does the week after that, and our little pilot program would come to an end.
But tonight, he’d asked me to show him my city and then let it move through him. Tonight, the market stacked its noise on top of our silence and called it music. Tonight, we found a way to be both of our people at once.
I handed him a mug. Our fingers touched. The compass ornament on the counter caught the light and threw it across the ceiling like stars we didn’t have to wish on.
“Ready?” I asked, meaning nothing and everything.
He lifted his cocoa. “Show me the rest,” he said.
So I did…my bedroom, my bathroom, my ridiculous little tree, and somehow, it felt like more than enough.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Drew
I hadn’t meant to take over her kitchen.
I told myself it was muscle memory, the bartender in me, the Benedict reflex that can’t stand to watch someone rummage around with the wrong knife or over-salt something that didn’t deserve it, even though I mixed drinks and rarely stepped in the kitchen.
“Step aside, city girl,” I said, rolling my sleeves up past my forearms. “Let me handle dinner. You cooked last time.”
She arched a brow at me over the fridge door, eyes glinting like she was already drafting my eulogy. “You think you can outcook me in my own apartment?”
“I think I’ve got better instincts,” I said, reaching for the fish. “You can keep score if it makes you feel better.”
“You know me well,” she said, setting the butter down on the counter.
“So you do keep score?”
“Only when it counts.” She grinned and handed me the cast-iron skillet. “Perfectly seasoned.”
I looked up at her, smirking. “That sounds suspiciously like how I feel about you.”
She froze, a flush blooming up her neck. “You, what, don’t use your weird country metaphors on me.”
“Too late,” I said, tossing her a wink as I turned the heat on under the pan.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but there was a smile tugging at her lips, and that was all I needed to keep pushing my luck.
The sound of sizzling butter filled the small kitchen, soft and alive as I squeezed a bit of lemon, added a few capers and dill while I put the salmon on a sheet and rubbed coarse salt over it.
“I thought you could barely handle chili?” she asked, eyeing my work.
