Page 33 of Fight or Flight

“I don’t come in here very often. I’m ashamed to say tonight is the first time I’ve used this room for a meal.”

“It looks inviting.”

“I can take you on a house tour after dinner if you like,” she offered. “I don’t use all the rooms. It’s a bit of a waste, but I like my privacy.”

“So I hear,” Tyler said.

She wanted to ask who he’d heard that from but didn’t. If he wanted her to know, he would have said their name. It didn’t matter anyway. She wasn’t going to allow gossip to ruin the first dinner party she was having in the privacy of her own home. “I use the formal dining room as my home office. The view is amazing, especially this time of year.”

“When I was coming up the drive, I saw the wall of windows. I hope that’s your office, because the mountain view must be stunning. In another month or so, the trees will be at their peak. One of the reasons I love this place. It’s easy on the eyes.”

“You’re referring to North Carolina?” she asked, placing the loaf of French bread in the oven. She then increased the burners to heat the potatoes and peas and stirred the gravy.

“Of course. I was born and raised here. It’s home,” Tyler said, as he trailed behind her. “What about yourself?”

Katherine stopped stirring the potatoes. She took a deep breath in, another out. “What about me?” she asked, seeming to have more confidence when she had her back turned to him.

“Where are you from?” Tyler asked. “I can’t place your accent.”

Did she want to go into this now, before dinner? She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to tell him her home state. “I was born in Texas.”

“The Lone Star State. I’ve been there a few times for conferences. Big state, friendly people.”

Katherine thought if he only knew her parents, he might not be so quick to categorize Texans as friendly. Though she had to admit, most were good folks.

“I left when I was younger and just never lost the accent,” she explained, as she put the chicken on a serving platter. She then spooned out the potatoes, peas, and gravy into small serving dishes. She took the bread out of the oven, wrapping it in a clean kitchen towel before placing it in a basket. “I think we’re ready. You want to grab the salt and pepper?” She nodded toward the stove.

“Absolutely.”

The oak log she’d added to the fireplace gave off a woodsy scent. Fiery sparks snapped, and the orange-yellow flames cast the small room in cozy shadows. She felt the setting was much more intimate now, with the fire ablaze and no other lights on in the room.

Katherine placed the platter and bowls on the table. There wasn’t much room, but she managed to arrange the dishes. “Would you like something besides wine with dinner?” she asked.

“No, this is perfect,” he said.

She felt blood rush to her face and was glad for the dim light. “Have a seat, and I’ll get more wine.” Before he could help, she went to the kitchen, needing a few seconds alone to get her act together. She needed to stop assuming every word Tyler said was a come-on. Once again, she attributed it to the fact that she’d been alone for too long.

The dogs were lying on their favorite rugs, and she spoke to them. “You both are getting an extra . . .” She didn’t saytreat, or they’d go bonkers, so she finished with, “dose of love tonight.” They watched her and then plopped their heads down, as if they understood exactly what she was referring to.

When she returned, Tyler stood beside the table. “Allow me.” He took the bottle of wine from her, refilled their glasses, then pulled her chair out before taking the seat opposite her.

“Thanks.”

“Would you like me to carve this? I’ve had a bit of training,” he teased.

“Sure.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “But I thought you were a psychiatrist.”

He took the knife she’d placed on the platter, cutting into the meat with precision. “I had some surgical training in med school.”

“I can see that.”

Tyler served the chicken, and then she added the potatoes, peas, and a spoonful of gravy to their plates. “Hope you like peas,” she added.

“I will eat anything in sight. This smells divine; I haven’t had a real home-cooked meal in a while. And to answer your question, I like peas.”

They chatted aimlessly between bites about the weather, her dogs, and the upcoming holidays, but nothing terribly personal. When they finished, she returned their plates to the kitchen and then came back with the apple pie, dessert plates, and clean forks. “Apple pie I made this morning.” Katherine set the dish in the center of the small table. “No ice cream, though.”

“Ice cream can be overrated,” Tyler informed her. “But I’m not saying I don’t like a scoop now and then.”

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