Page 38 of Only in Your Dreams
She smiles, something soft. “You’re welcome.” After a long pause, she says, “Well, I better get out of here.”
But she doesn’t sound like she wants to leave, and I know I don’t want her to, so I don’t think before saying, “Stay for dinner.”
Her eyes brighten, and I wonder if she’s going to hesitate, make an excuse. But she doesn’t even blink. “Okay.”
She follows me inside the station, and when we enter the main area, everyone is back. Tom must have finished cleaning, and Heather must have finished her workout, because they’re both in their respective recliners, fighting for control of the remote with Jacob.
“I won rock, paper, scissors fair and square,” Jacob is saying.
My lips curl as I look over my shoulder at her. “In case you were wondering how your town’s heroes settle arguments.”
Her brows lift. “Town heroes, huh?”
“It’s what the calendar said.”
Her laugh is warm and bright, drawing the attention of the group away from their argument.
I nod in Finley’s direction. “Fin brought flowers for me, and she’s staying for dinner.”
Color splashes across her cheekbones, but she looks directly at Jacob and says, “How do I get in on the remote-control contest?”
I hook an arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the living area and into the kitchen, which already feels more alive with her in it. “Oh, no you don’t. It’s my night to make dinner, and you’re going to help me.”
“Now I see why you really invited me.”
I nod and open the pantry to pull out a Fontana Ridge Fire Department apron from the back of the door. Slipping it over her head, I say, “Plus, I thought you’d look hot in the apron.”
She watches me as I wrap my arms around her middle to tie the strings behind her back. “Do you have some kind of thing for housewives?”
I’m so close to her that I barely have to tip forward to speak directly into her ear. “No, just a thing for you.”
I’m showing my hand too much, but I don’t even care. Not when she smiles the way that she does, like she’s warming from the inside out.
“So what are we making?”
“Pasta.”
“Please don’t make us listen to Frank Sinatra while you cook,” Jacob groans from his recliner, finally relinquishing control of the remote to Heather, who beat him in a final round of rock, paper, scissors. She turns on some reality show about people living in the Alaskan bush, which makes me smile, since she knows no one but her is interested in it.
Finley looks up at me, brows inching up her forehead in question.
“Your mom inspired me. Everyone hates it.”
“It’s worse than Heather’s taste in TV shows,” Jacob replies. Heather retaliates by turning up the volume.
Finley’s smile stretches wider as she watches the lot of us. I wonder what she’s thinking. She looks stunning like this—hair pulled back in a clip, little pieces falling out around her face, body covered in an oversized apron that hangs to her knees.
I sidle up next to her, bumping her shoulder with my own. “C’mon, let’s make dinner. I’ll just sing Frank instead.”
“God, no,” Jacob yells.
She smiles up at me, wide and unfettered. It makes my heart swell until it’s too large for my chest.
We’re quiet as we cook, falling into a rhythm that we have many times before in her mom’s kitchen, helping Jodi cut vegetables or toss salads. We both seem to know what the other one is going to do next without talking much, and the station is filled with the sounds of the TV and Tom, Jacob, and Heather arguing about what the reality characters should have done instead.
Before long, the kitchen smells of garlic, tangy tomato sauce, and sauteing meat. I’m draining the noodles when my phone vibrates on the counter with an incoming call. My eyes snag on Finley, where she’s sawing through a loaf of crusty bread from the bakery down the street.
“Could you answer that for me?”
