Page 8 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Chapter Four
Summer
Idragged through my door, thankful I’d dropped off a meal to Bec Jones on the way home and that I didn’t have to go back out. I’d made a quiche I’d kept in the fridge—she could heat it up whenever she and Thatcher wanted to eat it. She didn’t live all that far from me, but once the flu started circulating late last week, I’d known I needed to make at least a few meal deliveries easier this week.
I dumped my bag full of empty lunch, snack, and coffee containers on the ground in the kitchen, then stripped, showered, and emerged with wet hair, warm sweats, and an appetite. Somehow, I only felt tired until I got home and cleaned up. Eating in my scrubs after seeing sick people all day grossed me out. I wasn’t a germaphobe, but I also understood the basics of how diseases spread and had no desire to get the flu or any other fun illnesses, so I took any precautions I could, especially when particularly aggressive strains were at work.
Moving to the kitchen, I grabbed my own piece of quiche and nuked it for a few in the microwave. I filled a wineglass with my favorite red, taking extra pleasure in the fact that I’d found such a perfect Bordeaux for less than four euros at the local grocery. No, really… and it was fantastic.
I took my seat at the table and set my phone down, then took a few bites. Not bad. Not my favorite combination—a roasted red pepper, asparagus, and goat cheese tart, actually, but I’d called it a quiche. I pulled up the notes section on my phone and jotted down the changes I’d make next time I cooked the recipe. A few more bites, and finally,finally, I let myself inspect the envelope I’d found on the front porch when I came in earlier.
On the front, in a now-familiar script,Ms. Applegate.
Why did my stomach flutter? Just touching this envelope did things to me. Made me kind of… nervous.
I slipped my pinky under the edge, fleetingly wondering if he’d licked the strip of adhesive.
“Okay, really?” I rolled my eyes at myself becausereally.
Inside, on the same cream, textured paper as the last, it said:
Ms. Applegate,
Thank you for the thoughtful meal. I apologize if my first letter caused offense. I didn’t mean to. Rob Waverly is correct—much like he does, I also adhere to careful eating guidelines, particularly before competitions. I very much appreciate your efforts to accommodate my peculiarities, and I can confirm that everything you provided was excellent. Having had the pleasure of three meals from your kitchen at this point, I suspect anything you touch would be delicious. That said, I beg you to consider spending your valuable time, energy, and resources on someone else.
Please accept my sincere thanks, again, for the delectable meal.
Very Respectfully,
Nicholas Masters
Heat burned in my cheeks. The mixed-up feeling the man caused in me grew to a little flame of embarrassment and frustration. How does someone say some of the nicest things I’ve ever read in a letter and then ultimately still insult me by not wanting to eat my food?
And no, I did not cook for my profession. So I could recognize I might be reacting a bit harshly to his request that I not continue feeding him but—but—!
I pushed out of my seat and stomped into the kitchen, then dumped my plate, appetite gone. “That is a man with an ego too big for his giant, muscular, Hercules-looking body.”
I tapped the phone before thinking twice about it.
“Hey, friend. How are you doing?” Ariel Wolfe answered, the sounds of her niece and nephew chattering in the background.
“Hey. Do you have a sec?” I sounded huffy and on the verge of whiny, even to my own ears.
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
“So, I’m taking meals to the guys hurt in the accident, right?” I took a sip of wine and put the glass down a little too hard.
“Right. I heard everyone is obsessed with your cooking and talking about how you need to quit the clinic and do a meal-order business. I would totally buy your food, and Livie told me she would too.”
In the background, I could hear Livie holler, “I totally would!”
I chuckled reluctantly, resisting the good humor that comment tempted me toward. I didn’t much feel like getting happy just now—unusual for me, but I wanted to ride this sense of injustice.
“That’s nice. But listen. I got a letter from one of the guys saying I didn’t need to bring him a meal again after the second week. Then I found out he’s really health conscious.Fine, so I made him something super healthy. He left another letter on my doorstep today saying thanks, the food was amazing, and no need to give him another meal.”
Silence met me for a moment, before Ariel said, “Wait, he wrote you letters?”
“Yeah. On really nice stationary.”
