Page 29 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

W hy does Luke keep bringing up Derek and ruining everything? Can’t he let well enough alone? A niggling irritation tightens my stomach. It’s something to add to my list of ‘What not to like about Luke’: his incessant need to praise Derek.

Then I wonder whether Derek was the one who called Luke.

It only confirms Luke’s loyalty as a friend, which I suppose isn’t a negative.

However, I don’t view it as a positive either.

I decide to turn the tables on Luke. I won’t flirt, as I’ve learned that is dangerous territory.

But if Luke is going to praise Derek, then I’ll sing of Luke’s accomplishments.

We enter a small but cozy kitchen. All the appliances look new and shiny—clean.

I should have known this since The Brew is always spotless.

The kitchen leads into the open den, featuring a rock fireplace and a loveseat.

Books fill the built-in bookcases. I notice a shelf of Stephen King novels, along with a wide assortment of paperbacks and hardbacks.

So far, I haven’t found anything to make me like Luke less, except for the Derek situation. And that’s more about Derek.

Luke rubs his hands together. “How can I assist you? Are you the type of chef who likes to do everything yourself? Or do you like help?”

I smile. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

Soon, water boils on the stove, and pancetta sizzles in the pan. I hand Luke a fistful of dried pasta. “Break it in half and toss it in the water, please.”

“I’ve never seen pasta this thick,” he says, examining it.

“Are you strong enough to snap it in half?”

“Is that a challenge?”

“If you think you’re up for it.”

He uses too much force, and pasta goes flying. We duck and laugh. As he dumps the remaining pasta into the boiling water, I fetch the broom.

“It’s bucatini,” I explain. “It looks thicker, but it has a hollow center.”

“Crush my ego with that.” But he’s smiling.

He sweeps while I prepare the sauce, adding peeled Roma tomatoes to olive oil and fresh garlic. I grate the pecorino cheese and toss it into the bubbling sauce.

Moments later, we sit at a small table with a view of the mountains. The setting sun paints the sky bronze.

“This is the value of your house right here,” I say, looking at the view.

“It’s why I bought the cabin.” He holds up a glass of Chianti. “To the chef.”

I tap my glass against his. “To…” I hesitate, unsure what to call us. Finally, I say, “To friends. And for all the help you’ve given me this week.”

And we drink deeply.

Our eyes meet briefly. A flutter in my belly makes me glance away first. Then, I serve him a plate full of Amatriciana. Luke takes another helping, which pleases me more than it should.

“If that wasn’t magical, I can’t wait to try your… what kind of pancakes?”

“Unicorn.”

“Sign me up. That was the best meal I’ve ever had. But don’t tell my mother.”

I feel my cheeks warm at his compliment. It must be the wine. “It wasn’t fancy.”

“I’m a simple guy, remember?”

I tip my head and study him. “Humble… modest… unpretentious, yes. But simple?”

“Not sure I qualify for the other descriptors,” he protests.

“You have business savvy, Luke. You have a great home. You’re always a gentleman. Even when someone slaps you. And enough of a good, bad boy when you kiss?—”

Whoa! I stop myself. I grab the wine glass and take another drink. But apparently, I’ve already had too much, and it’s making me say things I shouldn’t even be thinking.

Change the topic , I advise myself. “What is it you want out of life, Luke?”

He leans back in his chair. “I don’t have lists like you do, Libby. I’ve seen what a lot of money can afford. I’ve experienced the struggle of not having much. And I’ve experienced having the most important thing taken away. No amount of money can fix that.”

“You’re talking about Derek’s family.”

“And others. I want more than stuff. I want to live simply but well. I want to enjoy every second, because it can all disappear.”

I understand that much.

“I don’t care about making a big footprint,” he continues. “But I’d like to make an impression, hopefully a good one. Be good to my neighbors, family, and the occasional stranger who needs a helping hand.”

“Like me,” I add.

He nods. "And…"

But he pauses to sip the wine.

“And?” I press.

“To leave room for the unexpected. Life is full of surprises if we’re open to them.

Something unpredictable, impulsive, and astonishing.

Like you.” He taps his glass against mine.

“You were a surprise. Seeing you hobbling through the parking lot searching for your lists in a robe and bare feet. Then, on the highway, in your wedding dress.”

I twist my napkin into a knot. “I’ve always considered surprises bad. Like bad news. It upends plans, disrupts a day, or even a life. Diagnoses. Loss of a job. Death. Even a letter at the wrong moment, and a bride walks out on her groom. That was a surprise Derek wasn’t expecting or prepared for.”

He nods in an understanding way. “Surprises can pull the rug out from under you. But you don’t strike me as a negative person, Libby.”

“I’m a realist. I plan for a rainy day. Because it will come.”

“Maybe,” he says, leaning forward. “But you don’t want to ruin a sunny day with worry about a cloud on the horizon.”

“But you have to prepare,” I insist. “The storm will come.”

“But rain isn’t always bad. You like to garden, right? Rain is important for the garden to grow. Difficult times help us grow, too. You have to learn to avoid the puddles.”

“Or jump right in?” I muse, thinking of washing his truck.

“Fun isn’t a bad thing.” He smiles.

“I’ve known a lot of entrepreneurs. I am one, as are you. Yet, you’re different. Is your enjoy-the-sunshine philosophy why you don’t work twenty-four-seven?”

He shrugs. “If you fill up every hour of the day with to-do lists – sorry, I know how revered your lists are – then there isn’t much time for something spontaneous. Like this dinner. But you had it planned, didn’t you?”

I smile guiltily. “I did and didn’t. But I understand what you mean. Still, being open to surprises is why you’ve been able to help me this week.”

“I’m glad I could.” His look holds something I cannot quite grasp. “I have something I want to show you.”

“Let me clean up first,” I stall.

“Since you cooked, I’ll clean. That’s the rule.”

“I like that rule.” It reminds me of my dad always saying, ‘ Kiss the cook’, after every meal.

My sisters and I would hug and kiss Momma as a thank-you, and then Dad would dramatically lean Momma over his arm for a whopper of a kiss that would make us laugh and dance.

But I will not suggest kissing the cook to Luke.

He might take me up on the offer. Or then again…

My gaze meets his once more, and I feel a rush of heat from my toes to my hairline.