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Unless it’s friends with benefits, and that just makes me cringe because it makes me think about what his mom and grandma said about us not having to get married but being friends with benefits first and then falling in love and playing right into what they want in the end.
I don’t think I have anything to worry about since my seduction game is weak at best. I can’t think of a single sexy thing to do other than to cook Thaddius dinner, and that could just be a friendly thing, too, given the fact that I’ve been making meals because it’s something I enjoy doing, and it takes my mind off all the things I don’t want to be thinking about.
I’m not a sneaky person.
I’m also not very subtle. There’s supposed to be art to that, and it’s one I don’t understand.
I could write him a poem and leave it somewhere for him to find, but thinking about writing something sexually explicit makes my cheeks heat up and, at the same time, makes me laugh, which makes me realize this is what my life has come down to—laughing alone while thinking about writing things about my nipples.
It’s probably better for both of us if we just amicably share the same space for the remaining time we have left without anything like feelings or nipples getting involved.
CHAPTER 15
Thaddius
“Wow. This sheep cheese lasagna is the stuff of dreams.” As soon as the words are out, I feel like I misspoke because I start thinking about the dreams I had last night.
Dreams that contained Nina and me doing some not-so-vanilla things. Dreams where Nina was soaking wet, not wearing any clothes, and dancing in the rain. I had to work extra hard today, mostly because I wanted to tire myself out. The rain made everything sopping wet, so it was more difficult, but it was nice too. I needed the physical distraction. I did some weeding earlier since the earth wasn’t so hard, then picked some peas, which I still have to shell, and shoveled out most of the barn because it took the piss and vinegar out of me.
Nina flushes. “Thanks. I find that looking for good goat cheese recipes but using sheep cheese instead works well. You’ll have to show me how to milk the sheep. And how to make the cheese.” She looks so eager that she makes me want to teach her, and I’m the world’s worst instructor. “Do you use one of those antique butter churn things?”
“No. Just a stand mixer.”
“Oh, really? That’s creative.”
And that’s how we pass dinner—talking about nice, random, small talk kind of things. I had a shower as soon as I got in because I was all the shades of stink and grim imaginable, so after dinner and after I’m done with the chores outside, I’m looking forward to kicking back and reading. I haven’t been doing enough of that lately. I used to knock back a book or two every couple of days.
I’ve been off my routine since Nina got here.
Every part of me is off, including the ones that are supposed to be ironclad against her.
I keep glancing up throughout the meal. Nina seems like she wants to tell me something, words that aren’t words, but either she’s biting it back, or I’m reading her wrong. After dinner, she whisks the plates to the sink, opens the fridge, and produces a blueberry cheesecake.
“This is also made with sheep cheese instead of cream cheese. I had a piece earlier to make sure it wasn’t an abomination.”
“And?” I probe. She looks giddy with delight. Maybe she is just excited to get to this part so she can surprise me.
“Well, let’s just say those wild blueberries you had in that bag in the freezer didn’t go to waste.”
“That good, huh?” I crack a small grin.
“Take a bite and find out.”
She stands at the counter, not having any, but looking into the pan, I see a piece missing next to the one she just scooped. It makes me want to smile, knowing she had dessert before dinner. I don’t know whether it was sampling or not since sampling would seem to imply she just took a single bite.
As soon as I take the first forkful, I get why she couldn’t stop at just a bite. “Wow.” I don’t moan out loud. Dear lord, I do not moan that word, even if this is total foodgasm. “You’re not kidding. You should pursue something culinary, you know.”
“I don’t think I’m cut out for working in kitchens. I don’t have the required thick skin for when everyone yells at you all night long, and that’s your own team, and then the customers start in on it.”
“There are other things. Bake sales and whatnot, bakeries, shops. You could open one of those.”
“With an English degree?”
“I don’t think you need any degree,” I tell her.
“I live in New York.” It’s a hard reminder that hits me like a jet stream of ice water. Right. She lives on the other side of the country. Lives. Not just stays. Her life is there, and my life is here. There isn’t going to be any meeting in the middle.
I’m shocked at how fast I’m able to picture her opening up her own place in Upperhand. Or doing the farmer’s market circle in the summer here.
