Page 30 of The Story Between Us

“What time does Jake usually come back? For the dinner run?”

“Around six. He does an afternoon round of errands, picks up the orders, delivers.” Lila narrowed her eyes. “Livvie. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” She watched Jake return to his car, mission complete. “I’m thinking that if Nate won’t open the door for me, maybe he’ll open it for his soup.”

A slow smile spread across Lila’s face. “I knew I liked you.”

Two hours later, Livvie sat in a booth at Maple Deli, pretending to read a menu she’d already memorized.

The deli matched exactly what she’d expected—handwritten specials on a chalkboard, a counter with red vinyl stools, the smell of fresh bread and pickle brine. A woman behind the register had given her a curious look when she’d ordered her third cup of coffee, but said nothing.

At 5:17, Jake walked in.

“Pickup for Rivers,” he told the woman behind the counter.

Livvie stood. Smoothed her blazer. “Actually,” she said, stepping forward, “I’ll take that.”

Jake blinked at her. “Uh, what?”

“The delivery. For Nate Rivers.” She smiled her best I-am-a-trustworthy-person smile. “I’m his neighbor. Lila Fox’s niece. I’m heading over there anyway. Save you a trip.”

Jake looked at her. Looked at the bag. Looked back at her.

“I mean…I guess? But the tip⁠—”

Livvie pulled a twenty from her wallet. “For your trouble.”

Jake’s face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Works for me.” He handed over the bag—warm, fragrant, heavier than expected—and pocketed the twenty. “Tell him I said hi. I mean, he never says hi back, but, you know. The thought.”

“I will.”

The drive from town to the lake houses took fifteen minutes. Livvie used every one of them to rehearse what she would say.

I brought your soup. Let me in.

Too aggressive.

I happened to be in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop this off.

Too casual. He’d see right through it.

Open this door or I’m eating your chicken wild rice in your driveway and you’ll have to watch.

Closer. But maybe she’d save the threats for round two.

By the time she reached his porch, the soup still radiated warmth, the smell tempting her to forget knocking on the door altogether. And her confidence—high. Mostly. Approximately sixty percent steady, which beat the zero percent she’d been working with this morning.

She climbed the steps. Knocked.

Footsteps. A pause. The sound of dogs scrambling, nails on hardwood. Barking.

The door opened.

Nate looked, if possible, worse than he had this morning. Hair wilder. Shadows darker. A different Henley—or maybe the same one, she couldn’t tell—with a new coffee stain on the hem.

“You,” he said.

“Me.” She held up the bag. “I brought your soup.”