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“Yeah.”
Tentatively, I took a few steps toward the closet and peered inside. Relief swept through me. Even if there was a trap door, the space was so jam-packed that it would take an effort to find it.
I can do this. I can learn to trust again.
I took a second to control my breathing. Andrew held my gaze. In it, there was comfort, patience, and care. Everything I needed to chase my fears back to the dark.
“I bet you’ve never used it.”
He straightened, appearing affronted. “I beg your pardon. I did in Wyoming.”
“And since then?” I teased.
“It’s been at home here.”
I stretched around him and closed the closet door. “Where’s dinner? I’m starving.”
That cleared the air, and I followed him down the hall past a living and dining area until we reached a modern kitchen.
“Want something to drink? A bottle of water? Wine?” he asked, his hand on the handle of the refrigerator door.
“Water would be fantastic.”
“Coming right up.”
“What smells so good?” I lifted my chin and inhaled deeply.
He blushed again. “I cooked.” Andrew unscrewed the cap from a bottle of water and handed it to me.
“Whatdid you cook?” I gave him a pointed look before I grinned.
“It’s a surprise.”
“I see. Tit for tat.” I nodded in understanding and took a gulp of cold water. “Where were you planning to have dinner?”
“I know a spot down the street.”
“Why don’t we eat here?” I touched the granite countertop of the island, and he blinked at me in surprise. I’d shocked myself too.
Lisa and I had talked at length about restoring my faith in others. Mrs. Quinn, Baker, the Elliotts—they’d made it easy. But with men . . . I hadn’t expected to face the challenge so soon. I understood that for trust to happen, I was going to have to take a risk. To be vulnerable. Those risks could be calculated. They didn’t have to be foolish.
And I’d already met Andrew’s family. In all the time I’d dated Huxley, he never introduced me to his parents. I never even saw a picture. He always had excuses, and I’d believed him.
“We can.” He paused, putting an oven mitt on his hand. “I just want you to be comfortable.”
I hopped up on a barstool and texted Baker again to let her know where I was. After a second, I texted Mrs. Quinn too. “I am.” He studied me a moment to make sure and then flipped on the speaker on the counter before he turned toward a wall of ovens. “This kitchen is to die for.”
He beamed at me. “I’m glad you like it.”
Andrew was proud of this room, as well he should be.
“What’s this song?” I didn’t know a lot of newer music. Silence was the sound I’d been most familiar with.
“‘Holy Ghost’ by Borns. You like it?”
I nodded, listening for a moment before I spoke again. “I’m guessing you like to cook?”
“I dabble.” He slid a pan of something I couldn’t see out of a warming drawer. “My dad always liked to be in the kitchen. I guess I got that from him.”
