Page 49 of Nothing Less than Magic
We stand there awkwardly.
“Well, goodnight then,” Knox says, but lingers.
I think maybe he’s going to kiss me, and I want him to. Really badly. I’d like to say that it’s because it’s been so long since a man besides Austin has kissed me, and I’m curious how it would be with someone else. But that’s not it. It’s simply Knox. I want him to kiss me.
He doesn’t, of course. He rocks on his heels with his hands still shoved in his pockets and walks out of the room.
Chapter 12
I’m awakened by two things: The morning light streaming through the window, hitting me straight in the eyes. And Knox humming “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” I recognize it, because Uncle Sylvester is a huge Cole Porter fan.
Besides humming, Knox is making a racket in the kitchen. I can hear pots and pans clanging and something that sounds a lot like a coffee grinder. Yuban, my ass.
I check the clock on the bedside table. It’s only seven. I try to remember what day it is. Since I’ve been here, the days are a blur. Without having to go to work every morning, it may as well be a perpetual weekend.
Tuesday.
I’m pretty certain it’s Tuesday, because the farmers’ market was on Sunday. Of this I’m sure.
I throw my feet off the side of the bed and force myself to get up when what I’d rather do is stay in bed. In this room with the faded cabbage rose wallpaper and pink canopy bed. I kind of love it here.
Something crashes—it sounds like shattered glass—and a shout of “Shit!” echoes through the floorboards. I find a robe in the closet and go downstairs to see what the commotion is.
Knox is sweeping up the remnants of a Pyrex dish when I find him.
“Mornin’.”
“Good morning. What’s going on? It sounds like World War III down here.”
“I had a battle with the cupboard. And the cupboard won.” He starts putting away the bowls that are now spread out across the floor.
“You want some help?”
“It was only a minor setback. I’ve got it from here. Grab yourself a cup of coffee, sit back, and watch the master of breakfast.”
There’s a hutch with mugs hanging from hooks in one of the Hoosiers. Each cup has a map of a state. Arizona, Nevada, Wyoming, Michigan, Rhode Island, Vermont. It’s not all fifty, but a good showing just the same. I take Minnesota.
The coffee maker is on the other side of the kitchen. I have to walk around some of the broken glass to get there to fill my cup.
“You sure you don’t want me to get this?” I point to the floor.
“I got it.” Knox sweeps the rest of the pile of glass into a dustpan and dumps it in the trash. “Watch your feet until I vacuum.”
I have on socks that I borrowed from Katie’s drawer, as well as her pajamas.
“So, chicken-fried steak, huh?” I’m watching him bread ground beef. “I must admit, I’ve never had it before. Why do they call it steak if it’s really hamburger meat?”
A car pulls up just as he starts to answer, and we both look outside the window as a willowy blonde alights from the vehicle. She’s tall, maybe five-eight or five-nine, and looks a little like Gwyneth Paltrow. Very glamorous and sure of herself.
“Do you know her?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.”
I wait for him to tell me who she is, but he goes back to breading his beef, dredging handmade patties through flour, egg, and panko. I’ve been a psychologist long enough to read a room, and it’s there, a soft pull of tension around Knox’s mouth.
The doorbell rings, and his mouth pulls even tighter.
“Yoo-hoo, anyone home?”
