Page 12 of Beautifully Messy
“First, how do you feel about brownies? Because the tea and wine aren’t going to cut it.” I quickly move to investigate the cupboards.
“I’m one-hundred percent pro-brownie.”
I find a box mix in the cupboard. As I add the ingredients, I turn his question over.
“It’s nothing glamorous. Nothing beats a sunrise run, then crawling back into bed with unlimited coffee and a book. Reading until it’s time to cook something cozy, like lasagna and garlic bread.”
Twenty minutes ago, Mason dismissed a simple question. And now, here’s a man with his chin resting on his hands and his attention wrapped entirely around my words.
“Is Mason there, or are you enjoying this all on your own?”
“It’s not his thing.” I scrape the batter into the pan, ready to deflect. “Do you run?”
“Most mornings. I love being out with the sun rising while the rest of the world sleeps. It’s when some of my best design ideas show up.”
“I get that. Something about the rhythm quiets the noise.” I tidy the ingredients as I softly say, “I normally run on my own, but I don’t mind company. If you want to get a few miles in this week.”
“I’d like that.”
Instead of meeting my eyes, he’s looking out the window—a tinge of red on his cheekbones.
We keep talking. He asks about my favorite places I’ve traveled, and I tell him about Chamonix in the French Alps. The mountain trails, a little café serving mulled wine where I’d sit and watch the alpenglow on Mont Blanc. “It was thefirst place I ever felt… peaceful. I could do what I wanted without worrying about what others thought.”
My honesty surprises even me.
“Do you do that a lot? Think about what others want rather than what you want?”
“Hazards of being an only child.” I give a half-hearted laugh and check the brownies. The look in his eyes says he sees right through my brushoff.
After a pause, he returns our conversation to travel. “I’ve always preferred small villages to cities. You get a better sense of people. I love nothing more than wandering a town with no destination or itinerary in mind.”
The image of him wandering aimlessly brings a smile to my face.
When the brownies are done, he scoops vanilla and chocolate chip ice cream, and I slice the brownies. We work in tandem, conversation never faltering. I learn he went to MIT, which is why he’s in Boston. I share about NYU and Georgetown.
“Okay, let’s see if your brownies live up to the hype.” He grins, taking a large spoonful.
The warm brownie and ice cream hit all the right notes, and I let out a soft, involuntary moan at my first bite. “God, that’s good.”
When I glance up, James is staring. His spoon suspended midair, eyes a shade darker. Instead of the vibrant green I’ve been watching all night, they’ve morphed into the furthest reaches of a forest. Deep. Dark. Inviting. The easy rhythm between us tilts. My skin prickles. Something tightens low in my stomach.
“Yeah, it is,” he says, his voice rougher.
I blink, trying to clear the heat from my face. Shifting us back to neutral ground, I ask, “So… the lake near your mom’s. Did you go there a lot as a kid?”
A pause follows. A slight tightening around his eyes. His voice comes out more guarded: “We moved there after... well, after we left my dad when I was thirteen.”
I recognize his tone, the same one I use when people ask about my parents. Practiced casualness that masks what’s jagged underneath. Rather than pushor ask more questions, I take another bite of the brownie. I know how hard conversations about a less-than-pleasant childhood can be.
“These are good,” he says after a beat.
“Hard to screw up a box mix. My baking specialty.” I shrug, looking down at my feet.
“You sound like my mom. She’d buy a cake, come home announcing she’d baked.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’d be an awful Italian son if I gave the impression she didn’t cook. Her chicken parmesan is still my favorite meal. No matter how busy or tired she was, we always ate dinner together. One rule she wouldn’t budge on.”
