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“Still. I gave you until six thirty. I even waited fifteen more minutes, something I didn’t have to do.” She showed him her watch, which read seven fifteen.
“Thanks for waiting, at least a while.” He lifted his free hand, palm up. “Please. Let me in and hear me out before your air-conditioning bill doubles. I have a good explanation.”
With a sigh, she pulled the door wide enough for him to pass through without squeezing the baby. “It had better be good. It was also unfair for you to bring Harper along.”
“Never claimed to be a dumb guy.” He paused and slowly scanned her living room. “Hey, this place is great. Did you decorate it yourself?”
Willow considered making another snarky remark, but she always lost when they sparred verbally. Instead, she took in the space as he had, trying to picture it through a wealthy outsider’s eyes.
He probably didn’t love each piece as much as she did, but maybe he could appreciate the combination. The downsized comfy sectional, rustic industrial wood tables with matching square-jar lamps and the painting of a Texas longhorn steer showed her attempt at New York City chic. The baby swing and the standing infant activity center announced that she was a mom.
“I liked the challenge of it in this tight space.
”
“Well, you’re good at it,” he said. “I like the painting.”
“How could I have guessed that?”
“What can I say? I’m a cattleman.”
She shook her head. “You were going to share that amazing excuse, I mean explanation, of yours.”
He didn’t appear to be listening as he strode right past her, following the baby chatter into the kitchen. The squeal told her just when Luna recognized their guests.
Willow was still shaking her head when she rounded the corner. Asher was bent in front of Luna’s seat, so their daughters were on the same level, but he straightened when he noticed Willow in the doorway.
“Squash, I presume?” He indicated Luna’s messy face.
“Good guess.”
“And what’s that incredible smell in here?” He glanced toward the oven.
This time she couldn’t help but to smile. She could stay immune to flattery for only so long. “It’s my lasagna.”
“Homemade?”
She nodded.
“You mean you raced out of work and whipped that up—” he paused to gesture toward the oven “—in the thirty minutes since you left the office? Feeling like a slacker here.”
Earlier in the week she would have felt compelled to mention that with a full-time cook at the ranch, he never had to “whip up” anything if he didn’t want to, but now it didn’t seem right. He was trying awfully hard to be funny. Maybe he really did have a good excuse for showing up late.
“You know, it wasn’t too hard to slip up here to preheat. And, for the record, since making lasagna is such a pain, and I’m cooking for one, I always prepare a few pans at the same time and freeze them.”
“That’s smart.” He shot one more look at the oven.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” she heard herself saying.
When had she gone from refusing to let him into her place to inviting him to join her? She hadn’t even heard his explanation yet.
“You sure you have enough?”
“There’s plenty. You two haven’t eaten yet, either?”
He shook his head. “Well, she did. Formula, cereal and strained peas, right, sweetie?”
“Yum!” the adults both said together and laughed.
