Page 25 of A Simple Love

She let me take her hand. It felt familiar. Right. Warm and small nestled against my palm.

“Right.”

I shook her hand firmly. “Deal.”

10

OLIVER

Cutting Kassie’s grass brought back memories of my teenage years living in Richton. Getting up early in the mornings on the weekends, going house to house, cutting grass, trimming hedges, doing whatever I could for pocket money. I had regulars that I went to every week, and new ones popped up all the time, which lined my pocket with dollar bills and promises of spending the money I earned. I enjoyed the simple, mindless task that was a reminder of growing up here.

Once I was done, I put the lawn mower away and used her trimmer around the fence and edges of the property, pleased when I was finished. I hadn’t lost my touch. The yard looked great, and I had a feeling the burgers on the grill would be a worthwhile reward. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had a burger on the grill. Or a home-cooked meal made by someone that I didn’t have to reheat.

I headed upstairs, grabbed a shower, and then went out in search of something to bring with me to Kassie’s. It felt wrong to show up empty-handed. My mother had always drummed into my head you never went somewhere without offering the host or hostess a gift—she was firm on that rule. I had noticed Kassie was drinking white wine the other night, so I picked up a bottle at the little liquor store and then for some reason headed into the flower shop and looked around, unsure what I was searching for. Luckily, the young girl behind the counter was helpful and put together a nice bouquet for me, which I took home.

I went straight to Kassie’s, knocking rapidly, somehow more eager to see her than I realized. She answered the door, greeting me with one of her shy smiles. She had changed into leggings and an oversized plaid shirt, looking effortlessly pretty. Her hair was loose, hanging down her back, glinting red in the late afternoon sun. She laughed as I handed her the wine and the flowers, shaking her head.

“There is no need for such extravagances, Oliver,” she said, yet looking delighted as she sniffed the flowers.

“My mother always taught me to bring the hostess a thank-you,” I replied.

“Well, this is a thank-you for cutting the lawn, so I feel like I should be giving you the wine and flowers,” she teased.

“We could give thanks back and forth all night, or you could invite me in and really thank me with one of those delicious-smelling burgers.”

She laughed. “Come on in. I just took them off the grill.”

I followed her to the kitchen, inhaling deeply. “Dinner smells awesome.”

“Let me put these in water, and we can eat,” she said.

Kassie was obviously in her element in the kitchen, moving around easily, no hesitation as she got a vase from the cupboard, added the flowers and some water, then grabbed a couple of wineglasses and the corkscrew, offering it to me. I uncorked the wine and poured her a glass, not taking any for myself. She brought over a platter of burgers, a leafy-green salad, then opened the oven door and filled the basket with some crispy-looking potato wedges.

She sat down after adding a pitcher of water to the table, watching as I filled my wineglass with the liquid. I lifted my glass in a toast. “To a great dinner—thank you.”

She touched her glass to mine, and for a moment, there was silence as we dished up some salad, adding potato wedges to our plates and condiments to our burgers. She had remembered everything I liked—grilled onions, dill pickles, jalapeños, even an extra-sharp cheddar cheese for toppings. I took a big bite and groaned in delight.

“You can cook as well as you can bake, Kassie.”

She smiled around a mouthful of burger, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Living in Toronto, my budget was pretty tight, so I rarely ate out. My mom had taught me how to cook, and those skills came in handy. I still prefer homemade food to going out—that’s more of a treat than a regular activity for me.”

That was the opening I needed. I took another bite, chewed and swallowed it, followed by a sip of water. As I set down my glass, I looked at her. “How long did you live in Toronto?” I asked casually.

“A while,” she said, deflecting my question easily. She lifted her glass and took a sip of wine. “I finished school there and went to work at an accounting firm.”

She didn’t say anything else, so I prompted her. “You didn’t like it there?”

Some of the light in her eyes dimmed, and she shook her head. “I always thought I wanted to be in the big city but decided it wasn’t for me. And it was time to come home, period.”

“Any particular reason why?” I asked.

She set down her burger and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Sometimes what you want changes. Sometimes the things you thought you wanted aren’t what you expected. I realized I thought life in the city would be better than life in Richton, but I missed home and decided to come back. I’ve built a nice little life for myself here, and I’m happy.” She paused for a moment. “Much happier than I was in Toronto.”

“Sounds like a story there,” I said cautiously.

“Not for tonight,” she replied.

I didn’t push her. With our fragile new relationship, I didn’t want to move too fast, even though I was burning to know why she’d come home. It wasn’t enough that she missed Richton—something happened and, for some reason, it was important for me to know what.