Catch and Release

by Laura Drewry

  Luka had raved about the footage Hope sent her last week, and the story editors dived right in, pulling out bits from everything and weaving it into a short story, which pertained to the guests, as well as the beginning of a longer narrative, which would focus on the relationships between the O’Donnell men and Kate and Jessie.

  The funny thing was that everyone at the studio seemed to have forgotten that Ronan had told them all to go fuck themselves; all they saw now was a good-looking single guy whose protective nature and gruff frowns made him more intriguing, more compelling. And a hell of a good target for their female audience.

  Licensed products would be out the week after the first episode aired. There would be T-shirts to start with, but Luka had a whole lineup of items ready to roll—everything from ball caps to bobbleheads to bumper stickers and more. And each item sold would mean money in the Buoys’ account, which was great, but it would also mean they were one step further away from getting back to the old way of doing things.

  Hope blew out a low breath and tried to shake all of that from her mind. It was too soon to start counting stickers or T-shirts yet; they needed to wait and see how well the pilot episode did on Saturday night.

  In the meantime, though, she had a second episode to worry about, and despite Luka’s instruction, Hope didn’t think anyone wanted a mic or a camera stuffed in their face while they were eating, so they set those aside when everyone started piling into the restaurant and left most of the filming up to the ceiling cams.

  As usual, none of the Buoys’ staff sat down to eat with the guests, because they were all too busy serving, chatting, and clearing. One by one, they’d duck into the kitchen for their meal, then rotate out with one of the others, until they’d all eaten. It was quite a system, one that seemed to work seamlessly for them, but still, Hope was very glad she didn’t have to do it—she didn’t know if she’d have been able to enjoy this chile-grilled salmon nearly as much if she had to eat it on the run like that.

  From her spot at the bar, every time one of them pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, she got quick glimpses of Ronan—flipping a tea towel hanging over his shoulder, whisking something in a bowl, grating an orange. The last time the door swung, when Jessie ducked into the kitchen, Hope caught a couple of seconds of him swirling a skillet.

  She had no idea what he was doing, but it was fascinating to watch, even if it was only through short peeks.

  With an armload of dishes, Jessie scooped up Hope’s empty plate, too, pushed through the kitchen, and then reappeared a minute later with a plate of…no…was it? Yes, it was. Crêpes Suzette, looking and smelling more amazing than the first time. But why was she setting it down in front of Hope? She hadn’t ordered it. She didn’t even know she could order it, because it wasn’t anywhere on the menu.

  “Compliments of the chef,” Jessie whispered with a grin. “He thought flames might be a little over the top this time, considering the number of people in here, so you get ice cream instead.”

  “Oh my God.” Hands folded tight against her chest, Hope leaned over the plate and inhaled as deep as she could. “I love this stuff!”

  “He knows.” With a teasing wink, Jessie leaned closer. “It always pays to be nice to the chef.”

  With that, she turned on her heel and headed down to the other end of the bar to refill some drinks, leaving Hope staring down at the beautifully rolled crêpes, with the perfectly peeled orange slices lined up on top and the scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on the side.

  Eyes closed, she let the first forkful sit on her tongue for a second, marveling at the wonder he’d created yet again in that kitchen. Sweet Lord in heaven, that man could cook. She swallowed slowly, sighed, then opened her eyes as she stuffed the next piece in her mouth.

  Ronan was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, head tipped to the side a little, and a half grin, half smirk pulling at his mouth.

  “Better than…chocolate?” he asked, and Hope didn’t even hesitate. She just nodded—hard and fast.

  “You have no idea,” she said, laughing as she caught a drip of ice cream off her chin. “This is unbelievable. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” A second later he was gone, back into the kitchen to whip up whatever other plates of heaven he was working on, while Hope sat there wondering if it would be too tacky to pick up her plate and lick it clean.

  She spent the rest of the night as she had the week before: interviewing guests, learning bits of their stories, and homing in on the ones most likely to interest the network and its viewers. At one point, when she was hunched over her phone in the corner of the great room, googling northern diamond mines (one of the guests worked up there), Ronan walked over and, without a word, set a cup of tea on the table beside her and walked away again.

  It wasn’t blueberry pomegranate, but she didn’t care. She’d have drunk castor oil if he’d set it down for her just then.

  Eww. Okay, maybe not castor oil.

  She spent the rest of the evening sipping that slowly, between chats with various guests and discussions with Chuck over who they should focus on. Even when the tea was gone, she carried the mug around with her as if it had some kind of special meaning, which, of course, it didn’t.

  It was only a mug, the exact same as the three empty ones on the coffee table and the exact same as the one Jessie drank her tea from every night. All true, and yet Hope hung on to it even after she’d gone downstairs to her room.

  Cookies, dessert, and tea. Was Ronan just being nice or was it more? It felt like more, especially after that moment in the bathroom. She hadn’t imagined that, had she? Given the number of moments over the last couple of weeks, she didn’t think she was imagining it, but she couldn’t be completely sure until…well, until she was completely sure, and there was only one way to be sure.

  She had to ask.

  No, she couldn’t do that, could she? That’d be awkward. Maybe, but did she want to spend the next three months wondering? She was thirty-four years old, and, no, that wasn’t old, per se, but time kept marching on while she sat around waiting for Mr. Perfect to show up. Ronan O’Donnell might not be perfect, but he was damn cute, and even though she didn’t know a lot about him, what she did know, she liked—she liked a lot—so maybe she should just do it.

  Make the first move.

  But she’d never done that before. How did it even work? Oh God, maybe she should forget it. Being single wasn’t the worst thing in the world; maybe one of her friends would build an in-law suite for her to live in so she wouldn’t be alone when she got old.

  Sure, that would work. Deanne’s husband was always looking for projects to do around the house—he’d love this idea! Plus, it would give them a built-in babysitter.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she muttered, slumping down on the end of her bed. “Man up and just do it.”

  Right. Okay. She could do this, but she couldn’t do it when other people were milling around. With the exception of Ronan, who seemed to be up late every night prepping for the next morning, Jessie was always the last one to go to bed, so all Hope had to do was wait.

  Thankfully—or not—she didn’t have to wait long.

  Chapter 9

  “Note to Claire, if you want intense family drama, rent Spy Kids.”

  Phil Dunphy, Modern Family

  Once she heard Jessie and Finn’s door close down the hall, Hope inhaled what was supposed to be a cleansing breath, then choked on it as she exhaled. Great.

  Careful not to let her door creak, she slipped out of her room and tiptoed upstairs to the kitchen, each step a struggle as she fought the urge to turn around and go back down. But then she reached the kitchen doorway and there he was, apron on, punching down a pile of dough while Johnny Cash crooned quietly from the radio; JD stared at her from behind a cut piece of plywood that blocked him inside the mud room.

  “Uh, hey,” she said, suddenly realizing that all of her courage and daring had turned tail and run
back to her bedroom. Probably hiding in one of her shoes. Or in her tote bag full of stuff. “I, uh, just brought my mug back. Thank you. For the tea, I mean. And the dessert.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She didn’t know why she was walking like that, sort of sidestepping her way around him to the sink, but the whole way there she could feel his eyes on her, watching, even though she was pretty sure he never stopped working the dough.

  “How’s, uh, how’s JD doing?” she asked, smiling down at the much more contented dog. “He looks pretty comfortable.”

  “Hell if I know.” Ronan swiped his mouth against his shoulder. “He’s downed about four bowls of water, snarfed half of the leftover salmon and some scrambled eggs, but I’ll be damned if I can get him to go outside without me.”

  “He likes you, is all,” she said, her voice dry and cracked. “You pulled him out of the hold and fed him, and dogs remember stuff like that. At least in the movies anyway.”

  He blinked away from her long enough to split the dough into two loaf pans, which he then pushed to the far side of the counter before washing his hands. The whole time he was doing that, Hope moved around the kitchen with her hands folded behind her back, pretending she found great interest in the calendar page hanging on the fridge and the odd hand-carved wooden thing on the window ledge, which looked a bit like a fish.

  “Okay.” After drying his hands on the dish towel, he tossed it over his shoulder again and lifted his chin a little. “So what’s up?”

  “What? Nothing.” She shook her head as if to emphasize her answer, but she shook it too hard and too fast, which immediately gave her away.

  “Is that right?” he asked. “ ’Cause you look like you’re about to share something else about blood-squirting toads or canaries.”

  She started to deny it and ended up laughing instead. But even so, she couldn’t quite bring herself to start. Maybe if she went downstairs and started over, maybe if she hadn’t hesitated when she first came in…

  With a glance at his watch, Ronan tipped his head and nodded. “Okay, well, I’m gonna be here awhile with the bread, so when you figure it out, let me know.”

  “Why do you make bread?” That was not the question she wanted to ask and she was pretty sure he knew it, especially when he smiled at her like that, as if he thought she might be a wee bit crazy.

  “Because then we have something to spread the PB and J on.”

  “Yeah, that’s funny,” she said, without even cracking a smile. “I mean why do you make it yourself? Wouldn’t it just be easier to buy it?”

  “Easier? Sure.” He opened the dishwasher and began loading everything into it. “But we try to be as self-sufficient as we can, and store-bought loaves all come in plastic bags, something we’re trying to avoid. Besides, you can’t tell me there’s a brand of bread out there that comes anywhere close to homemade.”

  He had her there.

  “So why don’t you make it during the day instead of staying up half the night?”

  “Because there’s other stuff to do during the day and I like the quiet in here at night.”

  “Oh.” It took a second, but his words finally sank into her brain. “Oh! You like to be alone at night, I’m sorry, I’ll—”

  She pointed toward the door, but he raised his hand to slow her before she even moved.

  “I didn’t say I liked to be alone, I said I liked the quiet. There’s no Jessie barking orders at me, no guests trying to explain to me how to make them a half-caff triple-shot vanilla soy mochaccino, and there’s no Finn making smart-ass remarks about my very cool and manly apron.”

  That did it; if she wasn’t completely in like with him before, she was now.

  He lifted his hand, gesturing for her to have a seat, and after a second she did. And then a second after that, she stood right back up again and walked to the other side of the table, where she had room to pace. For the love of God, they were grown adults—mature people; this shouldn’t be so difficult. The answer was either yes or no, and either way…Well, she didn’t know what to think about either way, but still. Either way.

  What was it Matt Damon’s character said in that zoo movie? Something about twenty seconds of insane courage and embarrassing bravery—that’s all a person needed, and then something great would happen.

  Sure, okay, she could do anything for twenty seconds. And so help you, Matt, you better be right.

  “Okay,” Ronan muttered as he tugged off his apron and leaned back against the counter. “Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than blood-squirting toads, can it?”

  “Welllll…I guess that depends on which side of the table you’re on,” she said, then glanced up at the clock on the wall. Twenty seconds. Okay. Fisting her hands, she bounced them against her thighs and nodded. Twenty seconds starting…now. “Okay, can I ask you something?”

  “That remains to be seen,” he said, chuckling nervously. “Can you?”

  Fifteen seconds.

  “I’m not sure,” she muttered. “But I’m gonna give it a whirl.”

  She tried to look at him, but his eyes were too beautiful, and his mouth…well, crap. His mouth was curled up in a half smile that made every inch of her feel warm, almost feverish. Look away, Hope, just look away!

  “Okay…” he prodded. “So whirl.”

  Crap. Only ten seconds left. Just do it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Maybe he’ll say no, but maybe—please, God, maybe—he’ll say yes.

  “I know it hasn’t even been two weeks since we met,” she said, the words racing off her tongue as if they were driven by Richard Petty himself. “And we don’t really know each other super well, but…the thing is…you gave me those cookies. And you made me crêpes tonight—again, thank you, they were amazing—and then…well…you made me tea.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did,” he said, gripping the edges of the counter. “But that’s not a question.”

  “Right, I know. The question.” Two seconds. Hope blew out a quick breath and then stopped moving altogether. “Are you going to kiss me or what?”

  “Am I—”

  Hope didn’t know if his knees gave out or if he lost his grip on the counter, but he seemed to jerk suddenly, which startled JD, who jumped to his feet and let out a sharp bark. Ronan moved to the nearest chair, wrapped his fingers around the top, and looked straight at her, his dark lashes blinking in double-time, which was too much for Hope to watch, so she moved over to the plywood gate and held her hand out to JD to sniff. He didn’t.

  Figures.

  “I’m sorry,” Ronan said slowly. “Run that by me again.”

  “Are you going to kiss me?” she repeated, never taking her eyes off JD. “It’s a simple question.”

  It was not a simple question, but her twenty seconds were up, and she had absolutely no idea what to do now that she’d slammed the ball into his court that hard. And, worse, he’d let the ball whiz right by without even swinging at it.

  So…crap. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down; he was supposed to say something back. Anything would have been better than silence, because it left so much room for interpretation. Or misinterpretation. And according to the incredibly loud ticking coming out of that damn clock on the wall, Ronan’s own twenty seconds had long passed.

  Like long long passed. And that was sort of an answer all on its own, wasn’t it? Nothing Hope could do now except…

  “Do you know there’s a pineapple on the top of the Wimbledon trophy? I read somewhere that it has something to do with old navy captains who used to put them on their gateposts when they came home from the sea—pineapples, I mean, not the trophy—but that doesn’t make any sense, either, does it? I mean—a pineapple?”

  Head down a bit, she retraced her steps from JD to where she’d started, behind the table.

  “If the tournament was in Hawaii, sure, okay, I could see it,” she said. “But London? It should be something more British, like one of those big hats the guards wear or the Union Jack. A cor
gi maybe. But a pineapple? I just don’t—”

  “Hope.” One syllable, spoken so softly, was all it took to put the stopper in her free-flowing ramble.

  “Yeah?” She tried to blink up at him, but right when his face came into her direct line of sight, she stopped blinking altogether and shut her eyes, until he said the most ridiculous thing ever.

  “You don’t want me to kiss you.”

  “Mmm.” Bobbing her head from side to side, Hope squinted a little, then nodded. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She snorted—and none too gently, either. “Well, because…honestly…have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I! You’re—” She stopped, her words jammed up so tight that all she could do was point her finger toward him and wiggle it around, as if it were a pen in a Spirograph. “You’re all that, and if you’re not going to kiss me, then I can’t be held responsible for the things that are going to start coming out of my mouth in the next minute or so, starting with the fact that France was still using the guillotine when the first Star Wars movie came out—the first first one, not the second first one.”

  “They were?”

  “Or the fact that female kangaroos have three vaginas.”

  “They do?” That seemed to throw him for a second, then he blinked hard and shook his head, as if that would rid his brain of the thought.

  “Or how about this: The oldest condoms ever found were from sometime in the 1600s, and they were made of animal and fish intestines—how gross is that?”

  “Pretty gross.”

  “Exactly, and this is why you should kiss me.”

  “Because condoms used to be made of fish guts?”

  “Yes. I mean no.” Hope stopped and inhaled a long, slow breath, in the hope that it would calm her. It didn’t. “I mean if you would have just kissed me when this first started, I never would have had to share that disgusting piece of history with you.”