Page 22

Wren

T he sugar granules swirl in the tart, yellow lemonade as I mix the ingredients in the glass pitcher. I woke up extra early this morning so I could make it before heading to work. I wanted to be up early enough to hang some things on the walls since I still haven’t gotten around to doing that.

Placing Carson’s new pitcher of lemonade in the fridge for tonight, I return to the spare room and grab the box of my mom’s things.

I didn’t take much, but one item of hers that I’d like to display is her seashell and sand dollar mirror.

It was always in her bathroom, and now I want it in mine.

I had honestly forgotten about it until I saw it at Wild’s a couple of weeks ago.

My hand gently glides across the dusty surface of the mirror. A few small seashells are missing around the outer edge, but a quick trip to the hobby store and I can fix that up in no time.

I find the perfect spot for the mirror and grab a few of my own things to add to the room. I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t decorated much in the new place since I arrived more than two weeks ago.

Usually, I’m on top of things like this, fully furnishing my home within a few days of moving in. But lately, I’ve been keeping busy with other activities—and I’ve actually been enjoying it.

With a small step back, I inspect the room and smile. The style is entirely my own, but it includes a piece of my mom. It brings me joy to think that my mom will be with me in a small way when I get ready every day.

The next hour flies by as I finish hanging the last item on the living room wall. The old cuckoo clock has been with me since I graduated from college—a housewarming gift from my dad when I moved into my first place on my own.

Quickly dressing for work and filling my travel mug with piping-hot coffee, I grab my purse and head out the door for another day at Sunset Haven.

“I just gotta swing by my house real quick to change, and then I’ll be there. Need me to grab anything else?”

“Nope.”

Always a man of many words.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon,” I reply as I turn into my driveway.

Work went by quickly today. Donnie was feeling a bit under the weather and wasn’t his usual self, which stressed me out a little, but aside from that, it was a very productive day.

My friend Delilah, who I used to work with at the hospital, met me for lunch.

We caught up and had a great time laughing and sharing stories about our lives over the last few weeks since we last saw each other.

I might have convinced her to move closer so she can work at Sunset Haven with me.

We both miss working together, but she was mostly interested in meeting my ornery friend, Donnie.

Noticing how tired and stressed she was, I suggested that she consider a change. Life’s too short not to enjoy your job at least on some level. She agreed that a change might be due and promised to really think about it this week.

When I walk to my room, I quickly change into the clothes I laid out for myself this morning: a simple green T-shirt and a pair of capris. I’d prefer to wear shorts since it’s so hot outside, but I know they aren’t the best option for night fishing at the pond.

I stop by the bathroom on my way out of my room and do a quick makeup and hair check. My ponytail looks like a toddler’s after hours on the playground. I don’t wear a lot of makeup—mostly just mascara when I work—so I’m thankful that it still looks okay.

Not that I’m trying to impress anyone.

The dark circles under my eyes could use a touch-up, but I doubt the fish really care about my appearance. Plus, Carson has seen me much worse than this.

After a quick brush, I pull my hair up into a messy bun and call it good. Before heading out the door, I grab the pitcher of lemonade I made this morning for Carson.

When I brought him the first glass yesterday, I was worried that it might be too sweet. I was glad he liked it, but part of me wondered if he was just saying that to avoid hurting my feelings. When he texted to say that my brother drank it all and seemed upset about it, it made me happy.

Which, I guess, is kinda messed up to be happy that someone is upset. But that’s a battle for another day.

Besides, Carson doesn’t do…well, emotions.

So, the fact that he liked something enough to feel upset about it— something that I made —filled me with a little surge of confidence.

Of course I’m going to jump at the opportunity to share more with him—even if I have to drive like a grandma down the street with a large pitcher of lemonade in my lap.

“Started to think you got lost.” Carson holds the door open for me, and I walk past into the living room, ignoring his grumpiness. He takes the pitcher from my hands and walks to the kitchen. “Come on, Tink. We have a lot of work to do before we go.”

I set my purse on the couch and take off my shoes, placing them next to the front door.

When I walk into the kitchen, I’m surprised by the jumble of ingredients on the kitchen island. It’s an organized mess, but a mess nonetheless.

“Wow. We need all of that to make pasta?” I question, pointing toward the ingredients.

Carson nods. “Not just the pasta; this is for the whole meal.”

“Wow. Okay. What do I do first?” I ask excitedly as I step closer.

“First, you wash your hands.” He points to the sink.

“Right.” I chuckle. “Sorry, I’m just excited! You know I love pasta. I’ve always wanted to learn how to do this. I can’t believe I’ve never asked you to teach me.”

I wash my hands quickly at the sink while I hear the clanging of bowls and utensils being placed on the countertop behind me.

“Here, use this,” Carson says, handing me a folded piece of cloth.

I unfold it, curious what it is.

“ World’s Okayest Cook ?” I cackle as I read the apron he handed me.

“Better than mine.” He lets out a sigh as he turns to face me, tying the string behind his back on his apron. My eyes quickly scan the words across his chest, and I can’t help the laugh that bursts from me.

“ This guy rubs his own meat ?!” I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. The apron also has two hands with thumbs pointing back at Carson.

His mouth pinches in mock irritation. “Gifts… From your brothers.” He looks annoyed, but a small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “I thought that one would be better suited for you than this one.”

“Yeah, I’ve rubbed meat, but I don’t really have any of my own to rub,” I say without thinking. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize what I just said. My gaze quickly flicks to Carson, who watches me with an amused smirk.

“Let’s just…forget the words rub and meat came out of my mouth.” I purse my lips and look down at the counter.

Carson clears his throat and grabs the mixer from the cabinet at our feet. “If you’re ready, we’ll get started.”

“Ready, Freddie,” I say, placing my hands on my hips. “It’s lookin’ nice in here, by the way. I’m not even surprised that the kitchen is the first room you started workin’ on.”

“It’s gettin’ there.” I watch as he grabs the bag of flour and dumps a pile on the counter in front of us. Carson’s never been much of a talker, but luckily for him, I’m pretty darn good at it.

“I’m eager to learn what you can teach me. I know from experience you’re the best.” I smile at him.

His deep blue eyes lock onto mine, and I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong.

His stare is intense, and his eyes dart down to my mouth and quickly back up.

I nervously tuck my lip between my teeth and wait with bated breath for his first instruction.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a deep breath and reaches across the island for the large glass measuring cup filled with water.

“Alright. Let’s see how well you take instructions. I’m gonna let you do most of the work.”

I nod, eager to do this and make him happy.

“First, you’ll make a volcano with the flour.”

“Huh?” My gaze jumps to him again. “I thought we were makin’ pasta?”

He runs his tongue over his lower lip and takes a breath before responding calmly. “Wren. Are you gonna follow my instructions, or are you gonna question everything I say? Because if that’s the case, I’ll make it, and you can watch this time.”

I nod, biting my cheek. “Sorry. No, I’m listening. Tell me what to do.”

“Push the flour to the side to create a bowl in the center where we can pour the water.”

“Water? I always thought you were supposed to use eggs for—sorry… Right, makin’ a volcano.” I push the flour outward, but leave the walls thick enough to hold the liquid.

“Good. Now, you’ll add some water and a hefty pinch of salt to the middle.”

I pour the water slowly, aware of his gaze on me.

“We’re makin’ a water-based pasta because we’re usin’ a thicker sauce, and these noodles will hold it better.”

He guides me through the process of forming the dough by combining the ingredients. When it finally begins to resemble dough instead of wet clay, he tells me to start kneading it.

I push, I press. I push, fold, and repeat.

“You have to press harder than that.”

“I don’t think I can,” I admit, feeling ashamed that I’m letting him down.

“Oh, come on, spaghetti arms,” he teases from beside me, poking my arm, which is already feeling limp from kneading the dough over and over and over .

“Oh, hush,” I say with a laugh. “We don’t all spend hours in the gym.”

“Here, like this.” He steps in behind me, guiding my hand with his, pushing down and out, showing me the proper technique. He lifts the dough and gives it a quarter turn before grabbing my hands and repeating the movement.

I try to focus on the dough, but I’m a terrible student because all I can think about is his chest against my back, and the rich, masculine scent of his cologne. It smells so good that every bit of my attention span is focused on trying to identify the notes.

“Wren?” Carson’s baritone voice over my shoulder pulls me from my rabbit trail of thoughts, which were quickly leading nowhere good.

“Sorry… What?”

“I said, wrap that in the plastic wrap and set it aside. We can’t roll it out until it sets for at least half an hour.”

Reaching across the island, I grab the red box and wrap the dough tightly.

“While the dough rests, we have time to make the sauce.”

He steps over to the fridge and grabs a few ingredients.

“I think it’s my turn to watch you ,” I say as I plop down onto the stool at the kitchen island that faces the stove.

“Is that so?” Carson asks, grabbing a saucepan and placing it on the gas burner.

“Yup. Sorry. My feet are killin’ me. I need new inserts for my shoes.” Bending down, I rub the arch of my foot.

Carson glances over his shoulder and tracks my movements. He nods and gets to work, moving much faster than he would have if I had been helping him.

“How was work today?” he asks as he steps back to the island, grabbing ingredients to put into the pan. The five o’clock shadow dusting his jaw keeps me trapped in a daze as I give a simple “meh” response.

We spend the next while talking about our days as he finishes making the creamy sauce that smells like heaven. He also made sure to let me know that noodles should never wait for the sauce to be done—you always want your pasta to be fresh.

Once the dough has rested long enough, he places the attachment on the mixer for the dough to pass through. After a few failed attempts, I convinced him that it would be best if I observed the process from this point on and that I’d try it next time.

Carson has always been a bit of a perfectionist, and I know that watching me fumble is difficult for him. He’s not mean or lashing out at me about it, but I can see the relief wash over his features when I insist that he take over.

He swiftly shapes the dough to the right thickness before slicing it and dropping it into the pot of boiling water.

“You’re really good at all this. You make it look so easy,” I say as I watch him mix the noodles into the pan of sauce, using tongs to stir the thick noodles around.

“Lots of practice.”

He grabs a serving with the tongs and places it on the white plate he had ready next to the stovetop. The Pappardelle, covered in a thick, creamy herb sauce, looks like a meal I’d pay an overwhelming amount of money for if I were at a restaurant.

“Wow. That looks like a professional chef made it.”

When I look up, he’s staring at me.

“Oh, yeah.” I giggle and nudge his arm. “Sometimes I forget you are a professional.”

The food tastes as amazing as it smells and looks.

I’m not even ashamed when I get up for a second serving.

Anytime Carson cooks for me, which is at least once a week, I take full advantage of the delicious food.

Not that I’m a lousy cook. I just don’t get fancy like he does.

A lot of mine is premade or has instructions on the box.

Another thing I love is knowing that anything he makes for me will be safe to eat, which is not something I experience often.

Having a food allergy means that I have to proceed with caution anywhere I eat.

“Thank you, Carse. As always, that was incredible.”

“You made it,” he states, putting the last forkful into his mouth.

“I made the dough,” I correct. “You made everything else.”

He shrugs. “Team effort.”

Standing, he carries our plates to the sink, rinsing them off before placing them in the dishwasher.

All of his appliances are shiny and brand new.

I can tell he’s already put a lot of effort into this place in the short time he’s been here.

Today, he focused on installing the new fixtures in the bathroom.

“The whole house is really coming along. You’re doin’ a great job.”

“Still a ways to go… But thanks.” He takes a seat back in his chair across from me at the table.

When I glance at the clock on the wall, I’m surprised by how much time has already passed since I arrived. “When did you want to head down to the pond?”

Carson stretches his arms behind him and leans back slightly in his chair. “I’m ready when you are.”

If I’m being honest, I want to go to bed now and let this food coma wear off. But this is the only night our schedules align for at least the next week, and I’m not missing it.

“Alright.” I push my chair back. “Let’s go catch a fish.”