Page 19 of The Sweetness of Life

“No, she can’t. She has to work today. Do you have a problem with me showing you?” He steps to the right and pulls a stem of lavender off the bush next to the front door. He brings it to his nose, sniffs it, and then rubs the purple petals through his fingers, sending each one fluttering to the ground. I hate that he broke the stem, but I love that he thought enough of the plant to stop and smell it. I love the smell of lavender.

“Is that a trick question?” I ask him.

He tosses the stem off to the side and leans against the frame of the door. “Stop being a pain in the ass and let’s go.” His voice rises and the irritation becomes more evident.

“Me?” I throw open the door and glare at him. “I’m not the one who’s the ass here.” He’s standing so much closer than I thought, and the smell of sage with a hint of lavender floats my way.

He jerks upright and his features relax as his eyes run over the length of me. He does this every time he sees me, and once again, I hate it and I love it.

“Shelby.” His voice is thick as his blue eyes, which always leave me a little bit breathless, climb back to mine. Damn him.

“Zach,” I answer, returning his stare. Neither one of us moves, and I’m certainly not going to be the one to falter first.

Letting out a sigh, his shoulders relax and he presses his lips together into a straight line. Pulling off his baseball hat, he runs his fingers through his hair then shoves it back on his head. A myriad of emotions passes over his face. It’s as if he can’t decide which one he wants to throw at me, and this flusters me.

In the end, he clears his throat and looks around at the outside of the building instead of looking at me. “Did Michelle explain the history of the cottage?”

“She did.” I keep my answer short and lean against the opposite side of the doorframe, frowning at him. Every warning flag I have is raised and flying. What is he really doing here? What’s his angle? He’s out of character this morning.

“Good.” He nods his head and then moves past me—without an invitation—and walks straight toward the kitchen, taking in all the things I have lying around.

“I actually prefer the cottage over the main house.” He runs his hand along the back of the loveseat as he makes his way to the breakfast bar. “If it weren’t such a great source of revenue for us, I’d move into it.”

Visions of sharing the space with him suddenly make the cozy cottage feel about half as big as it is, and it isn’t lost on me that this is the first thing he’s told me about himself since I arrived.

“I love this cottage.” Since he’s making an attempt at civility, I smile and add, “Thank you again for putting me in it.”

My eyes move around the room, and I smile to myself at all the little touches that make it so inviting, especially the vintage bee decorations.

“Well, better here than the manor,” he says dryly, matter-of-factly.

My eyes snap to his. I’m insulted by that comment, but I can’t argue with it. Here in the cottage is definitely better. He watches me as I move to stand across the kitchen island from him, putting a barrier between us.

“What’s this for?” His eyes flick to the pie dish in front of him.

“The other night when I drank the chardonnay, I was brainstorming ideas to go with it. Everyone knows white wines and fish go well together, but chardonnays are full-bodied and go great with summer vegetables as well. I improvised and made a vegetable frittata this morning with what I found in the refrigerator and out back in the porch garden. Frittatas are great for brunch and pair well with a salad.”

“Hmm . . . always working, aren’t you?” His eyes narrow briefly at me as he takes the knife lying in the dish, cuts himself a sliver, and drops it into his mouth. I wait as he chews, expecting some snide remark, but his eyes light up and find mine. “It’s good . . . really good.”

His approval makes me smile, and instantly, I wish I could take it back. I shouldn’t care what he thinks, but unfortunately, I do. He’s the other half of this assignment, and I bloom inside at the compliment.

“Yes, I am always working, because I love what I do. And thank you. I love frittatas. As a kid, it was one of the first things I learned to cook. They’re crustless, can be cheeseless, and can be filled with pretty much whatever vegetables or meats are in the refrigerator.”

His brows rise. “You made this as a kid? How old?”

“Thirteen.” The year my parents divorced and I became a latchkey kid. Instead of watching dumb Disney shows, I watched cooking shows hoping my mother would smile if I made things for her.

“Hmm,” he responds, partly due to skepticism and partly to awe. “You should use this recipe. I like it.” He gives me a closed-mouthed smile. This is also the first time he’s attempted to smile at me, even if it’s forced.

“Okay, I will.” I agree with him. It’s obvious he’s extending some kind of olive branch, and I want whatever truce he’s offering. It will make the two weeks go by much faster.

He picks up my water glass on the counter and takes a sip. His ease at sharing my things is a little unnerving, and suddenly, I’m anxious. This Zach is calmer and nicer, and I don’t know what to think of this new side of him.

Stepping to the left, he looks around the island and down my legs to my feet, which are bare, and then back up. “Leave the heels—we’ll be doing some walking.” He cuts off another bite and eats it while staring me.

He’s noticed I wear heels? I look at his feet, and he’s wearing a pair of Brooks tennis shoes, but I don’t comment. I also don’t mention that I didn’t actually agree to go anywhere with him, because anything is better than hanging out here staring at the ceiling. So, I walk to the front door and slip on the rubber boots I brought. They’re a lot cuter than tennis shoes, and I don’t mind getting these dirty.

“What are those?” he asks, finishing the glass of water as I grab a sun hat. His eyes are trained on my boots.