by Ellis, Aven
“Brooks, this is fantastic,” I say, stepping across the hardwood floors and into the room.
Angus quickly follows and stops right next to me when I stop.
“He likes you,” Brooks says, grinning. “I’m afraid he’s going to follow you for the rest of the night.”
I smile back at Brooks. “Well, that’s fine with me. He’s a love.”
Since we’re still holding hands, I lead Brooks toward his bookcase.
“I know you’re starving, but I have to see your books first,” I explain.
“My books?”
I nod as I stop in front of his bookcase. “You can tell a lot about a man from his books.”
“Damn. I should have put out intellectual books before inviting you over.”
I chuckle as I scan the titles. “Um, I hate to disagree with you b—”
“Don’t lie,” Brooks interrupts.
“What?” I ask, studying him in confusion.
“You love to disagree with me, but go on.”
I smile and turn back to the titles. “Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Ah, yes. You’re incorrect. I’d say Backyard Poultry Medicine and Surgery seems intellectual.”
Brooks groans. “It’s all work on those shelves.”
“If I don’t find Sherlock Holmes in this bookcase I’ll be devastated.” I take a step back to see the bottom shelves better, and as soon as I do, happiness fills me. “Ah! You are a true Sherlockian!” I declare. “I see Sherlock Holmes!”
Then I see two glowing green eyes staring at me from behind The Complete Sherlock Holmes book.
“I think I also spy Mycat Holmes,” I say, laughing.
Brooks leans down so he can see. “Ah, yes, that’s the infamous Mycat Holmes,” he explains, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. “But Mycat is not an ambassador cat. He will observe you first, to determine if you are a threat. Then he has to decide if he likes you. If you meet that criteria, he will then grace you with his presence.”
I study the sleek black cat, who is not about to come out for a meet and greet.
“That’s fair,” I say.
“So now that you’ve seen my books, can we eat?”
I smile up at Brooks. “Yes. I’m looking forward to the half English.”
“Full.”
“Half. I’m not eating beans.”
“You will try them, and you’ll love it.”
“No, I’m not,” I say, laughing.
Brooks grins and leads me out of the living room and down the short hallway, with Angus walking next to me the whole time.
“More obvious findings,” Brooks says. “This is the dining area and kitchen.”
I see a rustic, pine-plank kitchen table with white farmhouse chairs alternated with gray upholstered chairs surrounding it. The table has folders and papers stacked on it. Obviously Brooks uses this as a workspace. More big windows overlook the backyard, which has a deck and more shrubs and flowers. The walls are painted a very pale gray with bright white crown molding.
The soothing look is in complete contrast to the busy kitchen, which has the most hideous wallpaper I’ve ever seen—bright pink and white peonies, and they are large flowers. Like the size of my head. Lipstick red cabinets complete the look.
“I repainted this room a few months ago,” Brooks says, distracting me from the kitchen for a moment. “I told Sylvia to sell it she needed to remodel and to upgrade some stuff. She said to pick out things I liked, give her a budget, and to go ahead and handle it for her.”
“She trusts you,” I say simply.
“Yes. I guess once you trust your rabbits with someone, trusting them with paint is pretty easy.”
Brooks leads me into the kitchen and places the bag down on the kitchen counter. “The kitchen is the next project. I’ll strip this floral wallpaper, add some white subway tiles, put in some white shaker cabinets, quartz countertops, some recessed lighting. Then new stainless steel appliances.”
Brooks releases my hand and goes to the sink. I continue to study the red kitchen in amazement.
“Did Sylvia tell you the story behind this kitchen?” I ask.
Brooks glances over his shoulder at me. “You mean the crazy wallpaper and red cabinets?”
I laugh. “Um, yes, that’s what I’m getting at.”
I watch as Brooks washes his hands, and I can’t help but notice he’s scrubbing like he’s going into surgery, which I’m sure is out of habit.
And completely adorable.
“Yes,” Brooks explains as he scrubs. “One of her passions is gardening. Peonies in particular, as you probably noticed them coming up to the house. She said they make her happy and that flowers are another form of love.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Brooks grins. “I have no idea but I didn’t want to appear to be an idiot by asking. Anyway, she put the wallpaper in and decided that the cabinets weren’t right. They needed to be as cheerful as the paper, so she had them replaced with these cherry red ones.”
“It’s definitely bright,” I say, glancing around.
Angus flops at my feet again and snorts. I decide to take a seat next to him and rub his belly some more.
“Sylvia has been resistant to changing this room,” Brooks says, shutting the water off and reaching for a towel. “I told her this kitchen needs to be white and bright and clean to sell this house, but she said she’s not ready to let it go quite yet. And as long as I’m here, she doesn’t have to. And she can visit it every month when I have her over for Sunday lunch.”
I like him. I really, really like this man.
Somehow I remain poised enough to not tell him that.
“Okay,” I say as I run my hand over Angus’ belly, “that’s the second time you’ve said Sunday lunch. What is that?”
“You did only follow the trail of L.K. Bennett and Jane Taylor while in Britain, didn’t you?”
“Shut up, I went to museums, too,” I protest.
“All right, fair enough. But Sunday lunch is a tradition. You can have it for lunch or dinner, but you eat a roasted meat, roasted potatoes, vegetables, gravy and Yorkshire pudding. You can have it at home, go to a pub, or eat it at my favorite place, a carvery.”
Brooks begins unloading the bag, putting some tomatoes on the countertop.
“A carvery?”
Angus immediately gets up and moves next to Brooks, grunting.
“You know the full English is about to happen, don’t you?” Brooks says to Angus, removing the tomatoes off the vine. I get up and wash my hands, feeling like I need to scrub them about ten times longer than normal so Brooks doesn’t think I have germs.
“But a carvery is brilliant,” Brooks declares. “They have all kinds of roasts, every meat imaginable—beef, pork, turkey, gammon, er, ham, as you say here. Then you have all kinds of vegetables, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire pudding.”
“That sounds so good,” I say as I shut off the water. I grab a paper towel and dry my hands as Brooks opens a cabinet and retrieves a colander.
“I love that meal,” Brooks says. “And I make a damn good Yorkshire pudding, if I do say so myself.”
Angus lets out a squeal.
“I know, your tomatoes are coming,” Brooks says. “I’ve got to rinse them first.”
“Here, I’ll do it,” I say.
“No, you’re my guest.”
“And your guest doesn’t mind helping.”
Brooks gives me a side-eye. “You’ll still have to eat beans even if you help. You’re not getting out of that one so easily.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” I declare. I take the colander from him and begin rinsing the tomatoes.
“Would you care for a drink? Orange juice? Another cup of tea?”
“Yes, tea would be perfect, thank you.”
Brooks grabs the green tea K-Cups we picked up at the store and pops one in his machine. I dry the tomatoes and place them back on the countertop.
“Do yo
u want me to slice these?”
“If you could quarter one and feed it to Angus, that would be great,” Brooks says. “How do you want your eggs? Normally for the full English they’re fried, but I can make them however you like.”
“Fried eggs are fine,” I say, feeding some tomatoes to Angus, who happily devours them.
We go about making breakfast in his bright red kitchen as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. We talk easily as we work, I continue to feed Angus, who hasn’t left my side, and this feels so incredibly right. It’s something I’ve never experienced on a date before. I feel at ease with Brooks. He’s sweet. Funny. Intelligent. He has a huge heart for animals and for certain people, like his family and Sylvia.
And while Brooks was gorgeous the second I laid eyes on him, all of this is making him even more attractive in my eyes.
As if that’s possible.
“We’re ready,” Brooks says. “We can sit at that little table by the window,” he says, inclining his head in that direction.
I follow his gaze to a little table for two in the kitchen with bright green chairs that match the leaves in the wallpaper.
That has to be Sylvia’s, I think with a smile.
I pick up his coffee and my tea and place the mugs on the table. Angus follows me and immediately sits by my feet.
I smile. Angus hasn’t left my side since I got here.
“Here we go,” Brooks says triumphantly, “one modified full English with Pacific Northwest smoked salmon for an American twist. Although I still maintain salmon with beans is a terrible idea.”
“What? It’s you on a plate,” I tease. “A full English with an American twist. Although you’re really more a half American, I suppose, but I think your accent, love of beans with breakfast, and Sunday lunch tip the scale in the favor of Britain.”
Brooks grins. “My British roots are deep, but so is my passion for America. I can’t imagine being anywhere but here right now.”
My breath catches in my throat as I gaze into his eyes.
And I can’t imagine being anywhere but here, either. In this kitchen, with this crazy wallpaper, and having beans and eggs with Brooks.
“Go on, tuck in,” Brooks says, picking up his fork.
I smile. “I’ll dig in, thank you.”
“Right. Dig in.”
“You can tuck in, you know I love your British-speak.”
“You’ll only hear more of it if you try beans.”
“Oh, I’m safe on that one. There’s no way to keep the Britishisms out of your vocabulary.”
“Yes, I can,” Brooks declares, taking a bite of beans. “Damn, that’s good. Come on, Payton, you have to try them.”
I stare skeptically at the pile of beans in orange sauce on my plate. Next to hash browns, which look way more appealing.
I draw a breath of air. “Fine. I will eat a bite. But you will not get more than that out of me.”
“Right. You’ll love it and ask for seconds.”
“Ha! No.”
“Yes.”
“Nooooooooooooo. Now stop bantering and let me eat.”
Brooks grins. “I’m sorry if I offended you, My Lady.”
I put down my fork and burst out laughing as he brings up the famous British TV drama. “Who are you? Carson from Downton Abbey?”
Now we’re both cracking up.
“Well, if that’s the case I should be standing behind you with a towel over my arm while you eat.”
I laugh at that image. “Stop it.” I pick up my fork and this time, take a small bite.
“Yeah?” Brooks asks eagerly as I chew.
“It’s beans,” I confirm.
“Yes, but aren’t they great with toast and eggs?”
“They’re beans.”
Now Brooks is laughing. “You won’t give an inch on me, will you?”
I eagerly move to the hash browns and take a bite. Ah, so much better than boring beans.
“No,” I say honestly. “If I’m set on something, I’m set on it.”
So much for keeping flexibility on the date agenda, I think as I blow another rule.
“Well, at least you’re honest about it,” Brooks says, pausing to eat some of his eggs. His eyes lock on me for a moment. “I like that about you, Payton,” he murmurs.
My breath catches in my throat as I see the way he’s gazing at me.
He likes me as much as I like him.
And with any luck, we’ll be ending this date with our first kiss tonight.
CHAPTER 10
*Mental Note* Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.): Unlike previous first dates of the past, I will use this opportunity for conversation to see if we are indeed compatible. You know, engage in a conversation rather than wonder how fast I can escape the date while having my thumb hover over the Uber app on my phone in my lap as I plan my getaway.
Update: I don’t need Uber.
I don’t need my phone.
And I don’t think I ever want this date to end.
***
I don’t think I’ve ever loved a meal as much as the full English.
I’ve finished eating long ago, and while the eggs and hash browns were delicious, it’s the conversation that I’m finding best of all.
We’re still sitting at Sylvia’s small table for two, and Brooks has cracked the window so the scent of the lilac bushes growing underneath the window drifts into the kitchen. We’ve both refilled our mugs, and have done nothing but talk for about two hours now. And not once has there been an awkward silence.
It’s like we both have so much we want to know about the other, that the sun will come up before we even come close to discovering everything we want to know.
And with each sentence spoken, I find myself growing more attracted to Brooks.
He’s unlike any man I’ve ever met. Well, okay, he’s the first man I’ve ever gone out with, but he’s mature. He knows himself, where he’s going, and what he wants to do. And it seems like he has known this since he was a little boy.
Early on, Brooks knew his life was going to be dedicated to helping animals. The endless hours of study, of sleep deprivation, of being on call, didn’t matter. His passion for animals was worth all the sacrifices he made.
“How do you handle not being able to save an animal?” I ask, pausing to take a sip of my green tea.
“As a doctor, I know there is a cycle of life, and that includes death. I can separate that. But I don’t give up easily—I’m stubborn about saving a patient—but I know when it’s time to present that option to an owner. And it’s never easy to tell an owner there is nothing you could do to save their family member. That’s always hard. But I’m renewed by the days where I do figure out a mysterious illness, or bring an animal back to full health, and that’s my passion. That overrides everything else.”
I nod. “I admire that in you. I couldn’t do it.”
“Well, it’s not your calling.”
I glance out at the window for a moment, noticing how the sun has already set over the Pacific Northwest.
“No,” I say softly, gazing at the inky sky. “Although my family thinks I should have a more normal calling.”
“Why is that?” Brooks asks.
I turn to face him, his brown eyes questioning me.
I hesitate before speaking. What I am about to say is the truth nobody knows. I don’t know if I should share this on a first date. It makes me feel vulnerable.
Less than perfect.
“Payton?” Brooks says softly. “What do you want to say?”
“How do you know I want to say something?” I ask, fiddling with the handle on my mug.
“I think you do, but you’re afraid to say it. But I want you to know you don’t have to be. Not with me.”
My breath catches in my throat as I look back at him. I see nothing but sincerity in his expression.
I know, without a doubt, that he’s not going to judge me.
“I have an older sister,
Sophie. And Sophie is perfect. She excelled in everything she wanted to do. She graduated with a flawless grade point average, was president of the National Honor Society, and received a full academic scholarship to Stanford. She’s a pharmaceutical drug researcher. In addition to being a bilingual scientist, she is a talented pianist and gifted tennis player. Her husband is equally smart and talented, and they have a beautiful baby boy.” I stare down at my mug.
“My parents,” I say softly, “don’t understand me. They like normal and routine. Mom teaches preschool in Kirkland. My dad is an aerospace engineer. They wanted me and Sophie to achieve in standard ways. Well, Sophie overachieved—as opposed to me underachieving—and became a research scientist who creates medicine to save lives. Let’s just say they want a more traditional career path for me.”
“And not one as a blogger,” Brooks says.
I nod. “They think I should work for a big company doing a normal job with a standard paycheck and a ladder to climb. Mom and Dad are completely mortified that I’m a blogger. That it’s a frivolous hobby. I’m not being serious about life and haven’t grown up. They asked if blogging about fashion and living was my version of a gap year. When I said no, that it’s my career path, they about had a stroke. And they’re convinced I’m going to end up penniless and living on the street. I’m not living up to the standard they want.”
I said what was in my heart. I’ve never even said these exact words to Whitney or Marlowe, my best friends. Fear fills me as I dare to look back at Brooks, to see if his gaze has changed. If he sees me as lacking and as flawed as my family does.
But I don’t see disapproval in his dark eyes.
In fact, his expression hasn’t changed at all.
“You don’t even realize what you bring to people by putting your words on your blog, do you?” Brooks asks softly.
I furrow my brow. “What? How would you know that?”
“I went to your blogs,” he says simply. “And I found the archives tab and read your posts.”
I hold still. I can’t quite believe what he is saying. That this man, with this incredibly demanding job and limited free time, sat down to read my blogs about Kate and lifestyles.
“You read my posts?” I ask, stunned.
