Page 43 of One Small Spark
“I appreciate it, but you don’t owe me anything.” Especially not after the way I fumbled my date invitation. What could I honestly have expected?
“Right. Yeah. I get it. I’ll just—” She moves to step past me like she’s going to leave.
I grab her hand to stop her. She gazes up at me, a fresh waveof embarrassment shining in her eyes. It’s clear my response to her apology didn’t land the way I intended it to. If we’re trying to meet in the middle, we keep getting it wrong.
“Do you want to have dinner?” I ask.
“I—what? With you?”
“Yes. With me.” I gently squeeze her hand. “I barbecued shoyu chicken right before you got here, and I’ve got steamed rice and broccoli to go with it. It’s not my ‘marry me’ bread?—”
She huffs a breath and rolls her eyes but miraculously, doesn’t let go of my hand.
“But it’s pretty good. If you’d like to stay.” I tilt my head a touch closer to hers. “I’d like you to stay.”
My intentions should be clearer this time. I can almost see the wheels spinning in her head as she stares up at me. The longer it takes for her to answer, the more I steel myself to her inevitable rejection.
“Okay.” She squeezes my hand back. “I’ll stay.”
Relief rushes through me like I’m coasting down a mountain path. “Good. Come sit down.”
My cabin’s main floor is a great room setup: the kitchen bleeds into the dining area and merges with the living room. You can stand anywhere down here and see every other part of the room. But I keep checking over my shoulder as I plate up dinner, making sure Wren doesn’t disappear on me.
She might have accepted my invitation, but the tiny line between her eyebrows says there’s still a good chance she’ll come up with a reason to bolt. I want to soothe her uncertainties, but that will take more than a simple dinner together to accomplish. It’s a start, though.
I serve our meals and join her at my small table. As soon as she takes her first bite of chicken, she puts one hand over her mouth and groans.
“This is so unfair.”
Smug satisfaction puffs out my chest. “Does that mean you like it?”
She finishes chewing and points her fork at her face. “Uh, yeah. From the obscene sound I just made, you know I like it.”
I refuse to indulge in thoughts of her saying that same sentence in any other context.
“Seems pretty fair to me. I’ve been eating delicious food you made for years.”
“That’s different.” She doesn’t hide her glow of pride, though. “That’s my job. This is about you having unexpected life skills.”
“Cooking is an unexpected life skill?” I don’t dare point out how basic this dish is. “Did you imagine me living off of squirrel meat here in my murder cabin?”
Her mouth tips to one side. “You add variety by foraging for questionable mushrooms.”
“A gourmand. Nice.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “Have you been doing photography a long time?”
“A while now. It’s become an extension of my time in nature.”
She shifts her attention to her food.
“What’s that face for?” I can’t miss the way her nose wrinkles. The chicken’s too sweet for her sour response.
“Nothing. Just…the whole outdoorsy scene is not for me.”
“That's right. You’re looking for an indoor cat.” I sort of thought that was a jab aimed at me, not an actual aversion. “What don’t you like about it?”
“Bugs, for one. And there’s a lot of sweating, which isn’t my favorite way to spend a day. My friends have dragged me on a couple of hikes with their boyfriends, and it mostly seems like an excuse to make out in fresh air.”
