Page 20 of Accidentally Falling
11
JUDE
Gathering the containers from the passenger seat, I take a breath and push out of my truck. Arden texted me to tell me she was too tired to meet up which made this little trip pretty risky.
But the idea of her sitting at her house tonight having to figure out something to eat had me on edge.
So, I cooked.
And cooked.
Things she could eat now or freeze. Bland dishes and things with more flavor depending on how she’s feeling.
Climbing the wooden porch, I take a single step and knock on the door.
Soft footsteps sound before the curtain on the window moves to the left, falling into place a moment later.
“Jude, what are you doing here?” she says, leaning against the doorframe. She looks exhausted, and while it’s not the right time to talk, I can definitely help.
If she’ll let me.
“Can I come in?” I ask, holding the containers up as she nibbles on her bottom lip.
“I’m not up for entertaining.”
“And I’m not here to be entertained, Tennessee. I’m here to feed you. Stock your freezer and put you to bed.”
Opening her mouth without saying a word, Arden steps back and I sigh with relief that there weren’t any more hoops to jump through.
She yawns, shuffling over to the island and dropping into one of the high-back bar stools. Her elbow rests on the granite while her hand supports her face.
“I don’t want this to feel so natural,” she says. “Maybe I’m too tired for it to be weird.”
“Weird that I’m in your kitchen?”
“That and we’re having a baby.”
My lips twitch as I set the containers onto the counter and brace my hands on either side.
“I’ll take that as a good thing and we’ll talk about it more later.” She yawns and I know my window is closing to get her fed before she passes out. “I made chicken noodle soup, baked potato soup, then grilled chicken with rice and vegetables and meatloaf with mashed potatoes.”
“What?” Perking up, she leans both forearms on the granite and leans forward to see what I brought.
“I didn’t know what you’d be able to eat, so I brought things I thought would be okay.”
“You cooked?”
“I own a bar.”
“A bar, yes. But youcook.” She says the words as if she’s never seen me running each part of the businessincludingthe kitchen.
“Yes…”
“Huh.”
“You know we’ve met, right?” I deadpan, only slightly annoyed because I’m more than just a thirst trap or whatever the hell people call it. Disregarding my tone, she grins.
“Oh, come on,thisis different from you frying up French fries for me.”
