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When she frowned at me and glanced at my phone, I smiled at her. “Nothing important. Just let my brothers know you were okay.”
“Oh.” She twisted the hem of her shirt. “That was really irresponsible of me.”
I caught her hand and held it against my chest. “Bet you don’t do anything irresponsible.”
She shrugged and stared at my chest.
I tipped her chin up. “Remember. One day—no rules.”
She nodded slowly. “Right.” Then more firmly. “Yeah. Let them wonder.”
“Exactly.” I took her hand and led her out of my room. “Now let’s see if my fridge makes us happy or sad. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping.”
“Eggs?”
I got to the bottom of the stairs and turned around. She was on the last stair and we were almost eye to eye. “Maybe.”
She looped her arms around my neck. “At least we can make scrambled eggs.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I lifted her up and walked her through living room, her feet dangling. Her delighted laugh was a balm I didn’t realize I needed right then. I set her on my kitchen island with a quick kiss then turned to my fridge.
“Eggs are a…” I trailed off, making sure the date was okay. “Yes. They’re a yes. Cheese, and a questionable pepper.” I set all of them on the countertop beside her. “We won’t starve.”
She hopped down. “You find a pan, chopping board, and knife, and we’re in business.”
I was a passable cook, but she was more creative than I was expecting. She flitted around the kitchen, looking at my herb pots as she broke off a few here and there and dumped them into the egg mixture.
Pretty soon, the kitchen smelled amazing.
She left me to make the actual omelette and disappeared into my living room.
I put the top on my pan for the eggs to cook evenly without burning—hopefully—and opened a bottle of wine from my meager stash. Mostly, my wine came from gifts from local wineries. Part of running the orchard included doing some community functions.
I’d been pushing our hard cider pretty intensely, getting it ready for distribution. Luckily, Ronan Parrish, my brewmaster, liked doing most of the publicity crap. He’d brought two of our bestsellers to the Catskills for a cider and wine festival.
I was pretty sure the fact that we’d placed in our first outing was why we managed to get our distributor to take us on. Brothers Three Orchard was finally on the map. But I couldn’t slow down now—not when we were finally making tracks.
While I was pouring two glasses, the piano heavy tones of an album I had on my turntable floated into the kitchen.
She came back into the kitchen with a pleased smile on her face. “You have a record player.”
I held out a glass for her. “I do.”
“Impressive collection too. Guess you lean country?”
“Rock and country pretty exclusively. A little Motown when I’m feeling blue.” I took a sip from my glass and hurried back to the stove. Handily, I was about ten seconds away from burning it and caught it just in time. I slipped the massive omelette on a plate and grabbed a bottle of hot sauce and two forks.
“I like this. Never heard of the band, but was too hungry to dig for something else.” She followed me into the living room. “Not at the table?”
I set the plate on the end table beside my recliner. “Nope. No rules.”
She grinned over the lip of her wineglass as she took a sip. “Somehow I think you usually eat in here since your kitchen table has a stack of papers on it.”
“Guilty. Kitchen table is pretty much my desk.”
She looked unsure where to sit where we could eat off the same plate and I dumped her on my lap. She yelped and held up her wineglass, classy as could be because she didn’t spill a damn drop.
