Page 11 of Finding You
“I don’t actually take them. I just plan them. Every time I try to go on vacation I end up having to cancel because of work. But I really enjoy the planning—reading reviews, looking at photos online, scoping out activities and restaurants. That kind of thing.”
I nodded, not really sure what to say to that. “What is your dream destination?”
She sighed and played with her fork. “Iceland. A few years ago, a group of associates I was friendly with were planning this big trip to Iceland after a case we worked on wrapped up. We all booked our tickets, and I read every possible book and website about Iceland. I was fascinated. I wanted to hike a glacier, see the Northern Lights, and swim in the geothermal springs. I planned the shit out of that trip.”
“What happened?”
Her face fell. “I ended up getting staffed on an emergency bankruptcy filing and had to cancel. The others went and had a blast.”
“You will get there someday.”
“I hope so. Because I already know everything I want to do there.”
She must really love her work. I wondered what had happened, why she was here and not kicking ass in a boardroom somewhere. She seemed sad, and not just about the cancelled trip to Iceland. I tried to lighten the mood. “So you are a corporate lawyer who lives in Boston and can’t cook.”
“Yup. And trust me, I really can’t cook. That’s why I am so grateful for your hospitality.”
I smiled at her, and then a crashing sound distracted me. Ginger had flipped over her food bowl. There was kibble all over the floor.
“Ginger,” I shouted. But my darling dog sat, with her perfect poodle posture, and stared at me.
“What’s wrong?” Astrid asked, curiously staring at Ginger.
“Ignore her,” I said. “She’s just mad because I didn’t give her any barbecue.”
Astrid snorted. It was cute. “So she knocked over her own food. Nice job, girl.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t encourage her. She’s already super spoiled. She would totally eat at the table with a knife and fork if I let her.”
But Astrid was ignoring me, already picking some meat off her plate to offer to Ginger, who slowly strolled over and gently took it from her hand.
When she finished, she sat at attention, staring at me for more. Ginger never begged—we both knew it was beneath her. Instead she would sit and stare at me until I gave her what she wanted.
“In her defense,” Astrid said, laughing wildly, “it is really good barbecue.”
“Fine.” I sighed. I started cutting some meat off the ribs to give to Ginger.
Astrid beamed at me, delighted that I was kowtowing to Ginger’s demands. “You are a really good dog dad.”
I looked up and found myself staring into her gorgeous green eyes. “What can I say? I love strong women.”
* * *
Astrid insisted on clearing the table and doing the dishes while I vacuumed up the spilled dog food. “I can’t cook for shit, but I am a halfway decent cleaner,” she told me, while scrubbing the cornbread pan.
I believed her. She approached every task carefully and thoughtfully. She considered where each dish should go in the dishwasher to maximize space and easily fit everything in. Was it weird that I was attracted to her superior spatial awareness?
“Can I walk you home?” I asked hopefully.
She pinned me with one of her serious looks. “Across the street? That hardly seems necessary.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “It’s late and it’s cold. And my mother raised me right.”
She carefully folded the dish towel and placed it on the countertop, taking her time and avoiding my question. “Fine. You can walk me home. But only if Ginger comes too.”
Ginger perked right up and trotted over to the door, excited for a late night walk.
It took all of two minutes to reach her front door. She carefully unlocked the door to the small cottage and turned around. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
