Jasper pressed her lips together in a flat frown. "Yeah, none of this will put me to sleep. I just have a million more questions."
Even though I knew better, I really did, I said, "I'll find a way to tire you out, Peach."
Her eyes widened. "I'm sure you will."
Because I knew better, I pointed to the Bitter Oyster again. "I can also talk about mushrooms."
With a nod, she leaned into me, her head tucked under my chin. "Okay. Let's talk about mushrooms."
12
Jasper
I woke up with the earliest light of dawn and spent a full minute blinking at the ceiling because I didn't know where I was. There was a moment where I gazed at the hand-carved beams running along the midline of the ceiling and I believed I was in Texas. There was a hotel in Houston we favored for campaign stops that had beams just like that one.
It took that full minute to realize I wasn't in Texas. I wasn't on a campaign stop, and I wasn't married anymore. Not legally, at least. I hadn't been emotionally married since before Preston left for Northern Ireland. Since…ever, really.
I was single in all the ways that counted and I felt nothing. Nothing new, nothing different. Maybe this was numbness. I didn't feel anything because I couldn't feel anything, not because I'd already felt everything associated with this part of my life ending.
My gaze shifted away from the ceiling beam and settled on the rich blue wall. I had no memory of falling asleep on Linden's big sectional sofa but the pillow under my head and the heavy blanket tucked into the cushions around me said otherwise.
The morning after my divorce was finalized and the only thing I felt was disappointment Linden hadn't carried me into his bedroom instead of letting me sleep here. I'd always wanted to be scooped up and carried to bed, even if it was very unrealistic. There was no way I'd sleep through that sort of thing and even the most petite women turned into solid blocks of dead weight while they slept. Still, it would've been nice.
But this was better. Linden would've put me to bed only to post himself on the sofa and that would've erased all the carry-to-bed fun. This was better. Even if he'd snuggled in beside me and we'd rubbed up on each other in our sleep, this was better. No awkward tango getting out of bed come morning, no awkward conversation of defining this and what it meant. Nothing awkward at all.
This was better. The sofa was better.
Somewhere between convincing myself that sleeping alone on the sofa was preferrable to late-night spooning and debating whether it was time to sneak out and go home, I fell back to sleep.
It turned out to be the kind of dark, dreamless sleep that left your mouth feeling gummy, your eyes sandy, and your mind unfocused, almost as if you needed the day to recover from sleeping.
"What time is it?" I murmured to myself as I sat up. My body was not convinced that being upright was worth it.
"Ten forty-five." I swiveled in the direction of that deep voice, finding Linden seated at the kitchen table with papers spread out in front of him. "Figured you'd wake up when I started the bacon but that was eight thirty and you didn't stir."
"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that."
"You needed the rest. Don't be sorry."
I stood, folded the blanket, set it on top of the pillow. "Well. Thank you for letting me crash here."
"No worries." He flipped over a paper, tapped the end of his pen to his temple as he studied it. "You should do it more often."
I stared at him. "I should—what?"
He dropped the paper and pen. "Look, I'm not equipped for morning conversations. I can't talk at this time of day and—"
"That explains so much," I murmured. "If only you'd said something sooner."
"—you talk all the time, which is obviously a problem, but you should stay here more often. You can use the Wi-Fi and, you know, your crockpot won't short out my electrical system. It's better than spending the nights at Midge's place, especially after you've been painting. Can't be good to breathe all that in. You have to air those rooms out. And the hot water, for fuck's sake, Jas. I'm not gonna insist you do anything because god knows that will bite me in the balls but I think you should stay here. Every night. If you want. That's all."
"Not equipped to talk in the morning," I repeated. "Mmhmm."
"What was that?"
I shook my head as I retied my ponytail. "Have you eaten breakfast?"
He felt it necessary to look worried. "Please, Jasper. Don't bake anything. Please."
"No baking involved." I breezed past him to grab the shoes I'd left beside the door. "Just toasting. I'm gonna run next door and grab a few ingredients—"
"I have everything you'd need."
"Probably not." I stepped into one shoe, then the other. "I like a certain bread. Oh, and my avocados should be perfectly ripe."
He shouted something as I closed the door but I didn't worry over it. We couldn't have him overdoing it on the words. Not this early in the morning.
I filled a reusable shopping bag with everything I required for fancy toast and then stopped into my room for a change of clothes. My tote bag was ready to go with my regular showering-at-Linden's gear, which made it easy.
I gave the room another glance, saying out loud, "This is enough. This is fine."
Because I couldn't move into another man's house the day after my divorce was finalized and years after it became fact. Regardless of his invite and the devastating sweetness of his gruff, grumbly way of asking. Really, I couldn't. Even if part of me wanted to.
The other part, as always, needed to shove him off. Accepting that kind of help wasn't something I could do, even if it looked tempting on the surface. Sure, it sounded great and chances were good I'd get some decent sleep if I didn't have to worry about whether the heating system would short out the electrical overnight and kill me in a ball of fire, but at what cost? I'd exchange one problem for another, a fiery death for Linden's steadfast concern for me.
Because, of course, that was completely unnecessary of him.
Very nice and warm-fuzzy inducing, and fall-off-a-cliff foreign to me but completely unnecessary. So unnecessary.
I pushed open the door from Linden's deck and hefted the shopping bag over my head. "Time for toast."
Still stationed at the table, Linden pinned me with one arched eyebrow. He didn't respond, instead staring as I set down my tote and unpacked the grocery items, that eyebrow busy climbing into his forehead.
"What are you in the mood for this morning?" I asked.
A rough laugh rasped out of him. "Ask a different question, Peach."
I had to bite my lips together because he didn't need to know how much I enjoyed those words. "I have avocado, banana, eggs, a bit of brie, and a nice lemon curd. Just tell me if you hate any of those things."
"I'd hate those things all together so please tell me that's not the direction we're going."
I put my hands on my hips. "Seriously, Lin. Why would I do that?"
"I can't explain any of your baking choices."
I grinned. "Lucky for you, fancy toast is not baking."
While Linden shifted through his papers, I introduced myself to his kitchen appliances. I needed a minute or two to contemplate his retro two-slice toaster versus the high-end range with gas burners. I didn't need to broil the bread but it wasn't a matter of need nearly as much as want. I wanted that bread broiled even if I knew the odds of charring it and setting off the smoke detectors were high. I was willing to deal with some blackened crusts. I didn't mind that, even if I rarely used the broiler back home in D.C. because it was too much trouble to babysit the bread. Who had the time to supervise bread? Not me. Definitely not me.
But now I could sit by the stove, watching and waiting. I could risk the crusts, the smoke alarms. I could do this. I could do things I'd assumed were off-limits to me. It would be amazing, it would be perfect. The best toast I'd ever made.
I dropped two thick slices of sourdough into the toaster instead.
I didn't know ho
w Linden's oven worked. How hot it got, how fast it cooked. And I didn't want to ruin everything while he watched. I could scrape a little extra color from the toast but I couldn't serve him charcoal and pretend everything was cool. I knew what to expect from the toaster and I knew it wouldn't give Linden another reason to doubt my skills.
I'd use the broiler another time. It wasn't going anywhere. I'd get to it.
Once I had the toast prepared, I swung a glance to Linden. He was focused on the same paper, leading me to believe it was an exceptionally difficult topic or he didn't trust me with his appliances. Possibly both.
"Do you have any big knives? Something long and sharp I can cut these—"
He pushed away from the table. "I'm not giving you a long, sharp knife, Jasper. I'll do a lot of things for you but that's not one of them. Sorry but no."
I had a huge argument ready to go. Massive. There was a slide deck hot in my head. I had so much to say about this but then it just—poof—evaporated. There was a spot behind the argument, beyond the self-preservation, where I wanted someone to insist.
It was a terrifying spot to revisit because my ex-husband had insisted we were perfect for each other, my mother had insisted she was doing her best, my father insisted he loved me more than anything in the world. Even if they all believed what they'd said, they still let me down. They were still wrong. Why was I to believe Linden's insistence would turn out any differently?
"Okay. What are we cutting?" He dropped his hands to my waist and leaned in to inspect my creations. "This looks surprisingly edible."
I wiggled my shoulders. "Fancy toast is my jam."
He laughed into my hair. "That's adorable."
"Now, if you'd point me in the direction of a knife…"
Yanking open a drawer to the left, he asked, "Tell me how you want it cut."
Admittedly, the knife he retrieved could double as a samurai sword and it was possible I would've taken my finger off with that thing. "Triangles. Please."
He cut the toast and shifted beside me to rinse the knife when he was finished. "All right, then. Tell me what we have here."
My gaze fixed on the plates because I didn't trust myself to look up at Linden right now without asking whether it was possible for him to insist without breaking my heart, I said, "This is almond butter, banana, honey, and chopped walnuts. That one is avocado, soft boiled egg, and some of the hot honey sauce I found in your spice cabinet when I was looking for crushed red pepper flakes. It's fine if you hate it. I'll just—"
"That sounds amazing." He took a bite of the almond butter and banana. "Shit, that's good."
"I usually sauté the bananas to give them some caramelization but I didn't want to use every single one of your pots and pans."
"No, babe, this is perfect." He pushed the almond butter and banana plate toward me, saying, "Take the other half before I inhale it."
"I can make more."
His fingers tucked inside the waistband of my leggings, he steered me toward the table. "What you can do is sit your ass down and eat." He set the plate in front of me, asking, "Coffee?"
"Oh. Yes. That would be great. Do you have any—" A carton of milk appeared in front of me, followed by a mug. "Thank you."
Linden pushed his papers aside and settled back into his seat, the avo-and-egg plate positioned between us. "I need you to explain one thing." He filled my mug about three quarters of the way with cold brew and topped it off with milk, just the way I liked. Which was nuts because how did he know my ratios? How? Why? "All those cupcakes and banana breads—you were fucking with me. Right? Because this is awesome and that was as close as you can legally come to poison."
"I was not fucking with you. Like I said, toast is my jam."
He devoured half of the avo-and-egg, then pushed that plate toward me too. "There's more I could say about this but let me simply ask, one more time, that you never bake again. Definitely not in that crockpot and not when you could make this instead."
"I think your real argument is with the crockpot."
"I think I like the way you're smiling this morning so I'm not going to say anything that might change that, even if the crockpot is one part of a larger problem."
I grinned down at my toast. I didn't feel different today but maybe that didn't matter because I was different. "The crockpot is not the problem. I've had it since college and it works like a charm."
Linden shook his head. "Not taking your bait, lady." Then, "What are you doing today?"
I drew my shoulders up as I chewed. "I need to get back to work on that porch. And by get back to work, I mean figure out what I'm doing."
He dusted the crumbs from his hands and frowned at his plate, as if he had some very unfortunate news to share with me. "My sister owns a landscape architecture firm. She has two designers on staff who do porches and decks all day, every day. I could give her a call."
"Professionally remodeled porches are for people with gainful employment."
He frowned. "I'll make sure you get the family discount."
I had no desire to verbalize my financial situation to Linden or anyone else but I pressed on. "As delightful as that sounds, I will have to pass. These DIY projects aren't my idea of a good time but I like doing them. I like solving these problems and learning new skills that I hope to never use again."
He continued frowning. "She'd get it done for free. If I asked."
"Do you have any idea how much toast I'd have to make you—and your sister!—if I got my porch rebuilt for zero pennies? I'd…I don't even know what I'd do. But I can't allow that."
He reached over, scooped up my legs and set them in his lap. "You'd be doing me a favor."
"How"—I blinked hard at his hand on my knee—"how is my porch a favor to you?"
He gave my shin a long stroke before saying, "She wants me to join her firm. She's expanded in the past two years and used to be able to get by with subcontracting for arborist services but she has design and maintenance clients now, and farming it out is becoming difficult. Expensive too."
"And you want to be wooed?"
"No, not wooed." He picked up the last quarter of the avo-and-egg toast, which I'd pushed his way. "But I don't want it to be a foregone conclusion. I'd have to shift some of my existing maintenance contracts and the tree warden appointments—"
"What is a tree warden?"
He gestured toward me with the toast. "In this state, every city and town is required to have a warden responsible for the trees on public property. It's a law dating back to the 1890s."
"So, you'd need to balance your current arborist commitments with the demands of Magnolia's business. What's in it for you?"
He downed the last of the toast and took a deep drink of his coffee. "A stake in her firm. A hefty one. We'd be partners, essentially. Plus support staff to handle billing and scheduling, which—apparently—is not my brother's job."
"I can understand how one could see that conclusion as foregone," I replied. "What's holding you back? Is it working with different people or priorities? Giving up or scaling back your existing business?"
"A bit of all that but mostly the responsibility. Right now, I can take on as many clients as I want. I can work four days a week if I feel like it. I'm not accountable to my partner or my employees if I decide I want to slow down or take a month off to travel. I'm the only person I'm responsible for and I'm not sure I want that to change. Even if she does have some really cool equipment."
"Then it's not about the money. Not for you."
He shook his head. "No. I'm fine as I am. If I partnered with Magnolia"—he shrugged, lifting both hands and letting them fall to my shins—"well, I'd have more but that wouldn't change anything. It's just money."
Spoken like someone who never found himself without enough to get by.
"Anyway"—he waved a hand at the papers—"if you want me to make a call, I'll do it. She'll have a team down here within two hours."
"If you did that, I'd have to empty out
the garage or the other side of the basement, or decide what I'm going to do about Midge's things, and I don't want to do any of that. Not yet. The side door, the carpets, the walls—that stuff doesn't require any real decisions, and I have to tell you, I've made enough decisions for this month. Fixing the porch doesn't require anything like that."
Linden reached across the table and gathered up the plates, and jerked his chin in the direction of the dirty dishes I'd accumulated. "You cooked, I'll clean up." When I made no move to pull my legs from his lap, he added, "I'm catching up on paperwork this morning and then heading out for a residential appointment in Weymouth but don't let me interfere with your plans. The shower is free if you want it."
We stared at each other for a moment, my legs in his lap, his hands on my thighs, all the tension in the world between us. I might've spent the night but I'd never taken off all my clothes and bathed with him only a door away. He'd never listened as water rushed over my body and we both knew it.
"Yeah," I said on a sigh. It was a big sigh too, the kind that fell into the heaving bosom category. Me, heaving my bosom. "That's a good idea."
Except I didn't move. Not even an inch.
He ran a hand through his short beard. "Need anything?"
I gave a slight shake of my head. "I think I left my bathrobe next door but I'll manage without it."
I didn't mean to imply that I'd sashay out of the bathroom dripping wet. I wasn't suggesting I'd strip down naked here in the kitchen. But Linden's eyes went hot and wide nonetheless—and he yanked his plaid shirt over his head.
"Take this," he said, holding out the flannel to me, leaving him in a tissue-thin gray t-shirt. There was a tattoo on the inside of his bicep, a single rangy mountain with a dragon flying over its peak, and some kind of inscription ringing around them. On the other arm, the blade of a sword poked out from under his sleeve. I couldn't see the rest.
The Belle and the Beard Page 15
