Page 51 of Something Borrowed

It wasn’t intentional—and oh me oh my, don’t I have a lot of “primary” problems.

Wow, Vic thought. One of my inner voices is getting a backbone? Interesting.

Cal was staring at her. Why? Oh, right!

“Have a seat.” She motioned to a chair across from her bowl. “This one’s mine. I’ll serve you a fresh one. It’ll be hotter.”

Dammit—

Cal was clearly more of a grown-up than she was because he didn’t appear to hear any double entendre in that sentence either. Thank goodness. And honestly, it was a pretty innocent thing to say. Why did she fixate on and worry about how every little thing she said or did would be perceived? It was exhausting. She inhaled. It was fine. You’re fine, she repeated in her head, but made a mental note to ask ChatGPT its collected thoughts about that question later.

She gave Cal a large orange bowl, laid out his silverware on a cream napkin with a gold pirate ship on it, and put out all seven of the remaining buns on a seashell-shaped plate between them.

Cal grinned down with appreciation. “That is an amazing napkin!”

“Right?”

“From your shop?”

She nodded, taking a mouthful of soup, happy that it was still very warm, almost hot.

“That’s another huge perk to working there, hey? You get first eyes on—so first dibs—on whatever’s new.”

“Yep, a huge perk—and a huge hit to my paychecks.”

“I can imagine.” Cal tucked in too, sighing with contentment after his first two spoonfuls of the hearty soup. Then he looked up, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re a liar though.”

Even though Vic could tell from his body language and demeanor that he was teasing, a worm of apprehension wriggled up her spine.

“Oh?”

“You told me you couldn’t cook.” He grabbed a bun from the plate in front of him.

Vic smiled. “I really don’t cook very many things very well. Like I said, soup is an exception.”

Cal had broken the soft bun in half, and it steamed lightly and gave off a mouth-watering yeasty scent. Vic made a mental note to take a picture of the bag so she could get these same ones to reheat every time. He added generous butter and was about to dip into his soup, but paused, bun above the broth. “Is this okay, or do you think dunking is impolite?”

Vic’s eyes widened in surprise. She didn’t know if she’d ever heard a living, breathing man use the word impolite before, let alone ask her opinion on his manners.

“I think,” she said, picking up her own bun and breaking off a chunk, “that dunking is deeeelicious—and the pinnacle of properness.”

“The pinnacle of properness! Nice.” Cal chuckled and Vic’s stomach lurched, but not with nerves . . . with something she didn’t recognize at first. Then suddenly did. Pleasure! She was being silly, and Cal was finding it—finding her—amusing. Laughing with her. Not down at her.

Dipping pieces in unison, they held them up, eyes meeting.

“Cheers!” Cal said.

“Cheers,” Vic echoed.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Cal started, mildly panicked. “Shoot, it’s nearly 1:00. Do you need to get back to work? I can tidy our dishes before I tackle that door.”

“No need. I have the afternoon off, so I’m at your disposal.”

“Perfect! I have some real grungy work you can tackle.”

“Ha! Don’t get too used to my expert help—and since we have more time, do you want another bowl?”

Cal stretched, then patted his belly, which was by no means as fat as he pretended. Solid was the word that came to mind. Like Vic was starting to feel also described his personality.