Page 39 of Something About September

“I’ll get that to you soon. Was there anything else?”

Crispin shook his head. “Nothing at the moment.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

The door chimed as he left and Rebecca let out the breath she’d been holding. “Why do I feel like this is going to be all around town within seconds?”

Cort tilted his head. “Does that bother you? Because I don’t really care. I think the only people who may not have realized what was going on between us was us, you know?” He was close to her again, touching her cheek. “I don’t care if it’s not a secret.” He brushed his lips against hers, softly, barely.

“Then I don’t care, either,” she said. And she wanted it to be true. It was just that in her experience, in this town, when people were talking about you, it was almost never a good thing.

Still, she managed to put her unease aside as the day went on. The frisson between her and Cort made it impossible to worry about anything. She had a big job to do: clearing out the industrial kitchen so Cort could get in and rip out a few of the old cupboards, some of which had mold behind them and needed to be replaced. But her body hummed at the sound of him in the other room, pulling up floorboards, hammering new ones down.

Late in the afternoon, he came into the kitchen. “I need to go get Pip,” he said. She looked up, felt nerves fluttering in her chest like butterflies. She wasn’t sure how to say goodbye to him, but he seemed to have ideas. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. “I can’t believe I actually got any work done today,” he said.

She laughed. “Same. I had to come in here, put a wall between us. But now there’s no wall.”

The kiss was brief, though. “I do have to get going,” he said, his tone regretful. “But would you like to have dinner? Mel’s going to pick him up again, once she’s done with work. I’m on my own for the night.”

“Sure. Mooney’s?”

But he shook his head.

“I have a better idea. What if you came to my place? I may not cook much when Pip isn’t home, but I do have some actual moves in the kitchen.”

Rebecca couldn’t fight the mischievous smile. “Just the kitchen?”

“Especially in the kitchen,” he said, moving her toward the counter, pressing her against it with his hips, his lips warm on hers. Then he groaned and pulled away. “Okay, I really have to go. But, dinner, six-ish, at my place?”

“Can’t wait.”

Chapter 25

The aroma of fresh-baked bread drifted through the autumn evening, mixing with woodsmoke from someone’s chimney and the last lingering sweetness of late-blooming roses. Rebecca paused on the front step of Cort’s house, holding the bottle of wine she’d brought and the pie she had picked up at the market. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

The door opened, and Cort appeared in the doorway. He was wearing dark jeans and a soft gray Henley, flour dusting his forearms. His hair was slightly mussed, and he had that focused, slightly frazzled look of someone in the middle of cooking.

“Perfect timing,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw her. “I was just pulling the bread out of the oven.”

“It smells amazing,” Rebecca said, stepping inside. “Like being at Sabrina’s. I didn’t know you baked.”

“Another Pip-inspired hobby,” Cort said with a slightly embarrassed grin, taking her coat. “He asked Mr. Patel for some of his sourdough starter and we ended up with what feels like a pet. Almost as much work as the giant pumpkin.” He pointed out the window. “Which is doing fine, by the way. We can go out and check on it later if you want.” He led her toward the kitchen, and Rebecca took in the warm wood counters, the open shelving displaying mismatched dishes, the small dining table set for two with navy pottery plates.

She approached the table to look at the plates more closely. “I love these. Where did you get them?”

He smiled that shy smile she was growing used to, and she could tell he was just about to reveal yet another charming talent. “In the spring, I decided to take a pottery-making class on the nights Pip was with his mom. Those were supposed to be bowls.”

She laughed. “Well, I like them the way they are. Very you. They’re perfect in here. And it smells so good. Is there anything you can’t do?”

He moved to the stove, where a pot of water was boiling and another pan held sizzling strips of sun-dried tomatoes. “I’m making carbonara. One of my only specialties. I mastered it at YouTube University.”

Rebecca laughed. “I love that.”

“This is a vegetarian version, with sun-dried tomatoes instead of bacon.” Cort added pasta to the pot of water boiling on the stove, salted it, then turned back to her. “Because Pip and I recently read Charlotte’s Web.”

Rebecca laughed. “I get it. Sabrina and I didn’t eat pork for years after reading that. I still hardly do. All I can hear is ‘Some Pig’ in my head if I ever reach for a slice of bacon.”

Cort shook his head and laughed, too. “Same here. Tough to give up BLTs, but I’m making it work.” He examined the bottle she had brought, a dry Riesling from Niagara, then opened it as she settled onto a kitchen island stool and accepted the wineglass he handed her.

As Cort moved around the kitchen, Rebecca found herself studying the details of his life: the grocery list stuck to the refrigerator, the collection of coffee mugs that suggested years of gifts from his son, saying things like “World’s Best Dad” or with the Superman symbol, but with the word “Superdad” instead. There was also a small jar on the counter labeled “TOOTHLESS” in colorful markers.