Page 16 of Golden Touch
He returns a thumbs up.
I sip my beer, mentally sending good vibes to my sister. It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that tomorrow there’ll be someone in the world who calls her Mommy. It’s almost like we’re supposed to be grownups now.
AlthoughUncle Nashhas a nice ring to it, I suppose.
I finish my beer and listen to the soundtrack of bar chatter and music. And I can’t help but think about Livia and our flirtation in the bar next door. Even now, in spite of the disappointing outcome, the memory makes me smile.
I feel unsettled about our interaction today, though. And not because she called the cops. I’m over that already.
But Livia seems so different from the first time we met. She’s wary. There’s fear behind her brown eyes.
Fear of what, though?
“Here you go—one margherita pizza and the check,” the bartender says.
After leaving him a nice tip, I head back out to my ride. It’s a cool spring evening, and I can hear the peeper frogs singing as I secure the pizza on the back of my bike and then swing my leg over the seat.
I fire up the engine and head out. The country road opens up before me, and I can admit that it’s more fun to ride my bike here than in Boston. Vermont has its moments.
But I still don’t belong here.
CHAPTER 8
LIVIA
At nine o’clock Nash knocks on the door, after I’d half convinced myself that he’d changed his mind and gone to a hotel.
From my spot at the stove, it’s only a couple paces to the door. So I twist open the knob and then go right back to ladling chili into clean deli containers.
Or I try to, anyway. But Nash is a difficult man to ignore. He’s a big person, and magnetic in a way that I can’t really explain. The kitchen feels really small all of a sudden.
And hot. It feels hot. I could blame the chili, but the truth is more like a hormone rush. This man just does things to me. It’s those flashing brown eyes, and those square shoulders.
I wish he’d turn around and walk back out again. I don’t need this in my life, and it makes me grumpy.
“You cook?” he asks by way of greeting. “Smells good.”
God! Men. I turn down my Kelsea Ballerini playlist and tell him how it is. “Look, I cook so I can eat. It’s cheaper than buying pizza.” I point at the cardboard square in his hand. “If you’re still hungry you can help yourself, I guess. But go easy, because this has to feed me for a week.”
He blinks. “That was just a compliment, pussycat. And this is for you.” He sets the box onto the table. “Didn’t go crazy on thetoppings, because I don’t know what you like. I know it’s a little late, but I treated the brewers tonight, and thought I’d bring you something so you wouldn’t miss out. Could make a nice lunch for you tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, as my cheeks burn brightly with embarrassment. “Thank you. That wasn’t necessary.”
He grins. “You’re welcome. I’m not going to eat all your food, lady. But when I get sick of takeout, I might ask to borrow your skillet, if that’s okay.”
“No problem,” I say quickly. “As long as you’re not one of those men who doesn’t know how to do dishes. And did you lock the door?”
He turns his back on me and clicks the button into place. “There we go. Sorry I forgot. Crappy lock there, too.”
“It’s all I’ve got. Not my door to upgrade.”
“Okay. We’ll work on it,” he says.
I look up from my ladle. “We will?”
He shrugs. “You seem a little jumpy. Figure you have a reason. And the lock is a real POS.”
I don’t know what to do with that. “Thank you for the pizza. The Gin Mill does nice work.”
