And just like that, the bitter knots in my stomach that I’d been battling all day unfurled. It felt a little silly that those words were all I’d needed for the thorny feeling to fall away.
“Oh.” Was all I could say.
“Alright.” Rhett stood and extended me a hand. “Time for dinner.”
“Huh?” I muttered.
He stared pointedly at his upturned palm. Slowly, mind muddled, I slipped my hand into his and let him help me out of the chair. I cherished the warmth for the split second before he retrieved it and motioned for me to follow him.
“Wait here,” Rhett said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
I shared a look with Easton, who appeared equally perplexed as Rhett launched out the door and down the porch. When it opened again, there was a large, brown paper bag in his arms.
“Dinner,” he explained, a goofy smile on his lips.
“What…” I shut the front door behind him as he strode back inside and set the bag on my kitchen counter. Easton and I watched from the entryway as he began methodically setting a spread out across the tile.
“I figured you wouldn’t have anything,” Rhett declared over his shoulder, turning to my fridge and frowning as he studied the contents. I flushed a deeper red. “I was right,” he muttered.
“I—” My protest died in my throat as he rummaged through the cabinets. Easton promptly abandoned me for his twelfth nap of the day on the couch.
“Ah, good.” Crouching at the cabinet by the dishwasher, he held up a few pans to the window light and grinned. “These will work.” They clattered lightly against the counter as he set them down and stood.
“Dinner?” I finally managed to squeak.
“I’m making you a proper meal,” he replied, inspecting a knife from my drawer before swiftly rolling up his sleeves.
“Why?”
Rhett looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Because you said you forget to eat.”
I nearly keeled over from the butterflies that exploded in my stomach. He continued prepping in my kitchen as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and I watched as the meteorites in my chest collided at record speeds. This man was dangerous.
“Can I help?” I said, feet moving before I could figure out the proper plan of action.
Rhett and I worked in tandem as I chopped vegetables, and he prepared the steaks. From the corner of my eye, I took in his attentive squint, the deftness of his fingers, and the way his shoulders hunched forward in concentration. Everything he started—from fixing Marigold’s to my broken-down furniture—was finished meticulously. That was just who he was. My stomach fluttered again.
“Ouch!”
I sucked in a breath and cradled my hand as the blood trickled down my finger. Rhett leaped into action, leading me to the sink by my wrist and placing my hand under running water.
“Bandages?” He questioned, already searching through my kitchen.
“By the fridge.”
I washed the blood off with some soap and hissed as it seeped into the cut. Brows furrowed and lips pinned together, Rhett shut off the water and pressed a piece of paper towel to my finger.
“Hold that,” he commanded, moving quickly to my container of random first-aid items.
“It’s notthatbad,” I mused.
Rhett nimbly held my hand as he removed the crimson paper towel and wrapped the bandage around my finger. Dropping my hand, he shook his head and sighed. “I should’ve asked if you’ve ever learned how to cut vegetables.”
I gaped. “Hey!”
Smacking his arm with my good hand, his seriousness crumbled into a fit of laughter. Fighting the smile on my lips was a lost cause.
“Okay, okay,” he finally said, eyes glistening. “Assuming you didn’t get blood all over your work, your job is done. Go sit down.”
