Page 72 of Against the Clock

His expression turns to a grin, a rueful one. “Coming on too strong?”

“Maybe?” I say, but I’m not freaked out. I don’t really know how to feel. I like it.

I like the attention. I like Daniel. I like the idea of him as my boyfriend.

“Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

“I can do that,” he says, too quickly. Too easily. It’s freaking adorable. “Like tomorrow? Can we take it tomorrow? One day spent apple-picking at a local farm, maybe spending the afternoon at a local winery down the road?”

I roll my eyes, my lips pursed to keep the idiotic grin off my face, and I tug my phone out of my purse. There are already thirty new emails in my inbox, but a quick perusal shows none of them are urgent. I stayed late today, anyway, and I don’t have any meetings that can’t be rescheduled.

Spending the day with Daniel sounds… unbelievably better than sitting in my tiny cube.

He’s quiet, the only sound the gentle metallic noise of the whisk against the pan and the bubbling of the noodles in the pot next to it.

My fingers fly across the screen and I tap out an email in record time. Taking a sick day. Be back later this week.

I send it, and it kicks back an almost instant reply from my boss. Feel better. Looking forward to hearing an update on the AFL cheer piece.

My tongue swipes over my teeth and I try not to let that derail my excitement over taking tomorrow off and having fun.

“Is that a no?” Daniel finally asks, a note of disappointment in the question.

“I just called in.” I hold up my phone, then squint at it. “Well, emailed, but either way, I’m off tomorrow now. We can hang out.”

He beams at me, steam clouding the air between us. “That’s great. I promise it will be a good time.”

“I’m excited.” I am. I feel alive, and awake. This is all so brand-new, this thing with Daniel, and even though his speech about being all in is… a lot, he’s so easy to be with, so easy to like, that I can’t help but feel excited, excited and so hopeful.

About him.

“Apples are great,” he says solemnly. “They say one a day keeps the doctor away.”

I laugh into the sparkling bottle of water, watching as he drains the noodles, then carefully spoons them into the cream sauce.

“Where did you learn to cook? Did your parents teach you? My mom was good in the kitchen, but with my dad and her job and me, I don’t think she ever enjoyed it, you know? I picked up a little from her, but I’m not an expert. I wouldn’t know how to do what you just did.”

“Honestly?” he glances up at me from the pan full of noodles and aromatic white sauce and his eyes narrow, just slightly. “My college coach taught me one summer.”

“What? Your football coach?” Confused, I lean across the island counter, my mouth pursed. “Is that normal?”

“No, definitely not,” he says, laughing again. Graceful as a ballerina, he pivots to a cupboard behind him, which opens on silent hinges. Two large plates appear, clinking against the white marble counter as he piles noodles on each.

“Coach Morelle saw something in me I didn’t know I had. Something I always wanted. My parents were… great, honestly, but they didn’t understand why I wanted to play ball, why I had to. Coach did. Anyway, my parents wanted me to drop out and go into business with them, you know, take up the mantle of my dad’s construction company. They were really old-fashioned, and my mom didn’t teach me to cook because she always said that would be my wife’s job.”

He spears me with an apologetic glance and I dip my chin, signaling for him to go on.

“I didn’t want a wife, not after the example she and my dad set. They must have loved each other once, but by the time I was old enough to remember, they’d settled into this toxic, bitter stalemate.” He blows out a breath, taking out silverware and carefully setting it all in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. My childhood wasn’t perfect, but there was never any doubt that my parents loved each other.

“Don’t. Don’t be. I went to therapy for years after my own divorce. It was always going to fail. I wasn’t who I should have been for her. I was afraid to be what she deserved.” He places his own plate next to mine, then turns to wash his hands.

I wait to dive into the delicious-looking fettuccine, the cream sauce clinging to the noodles like a lover.

“But back to cooking. My coach saw me starting to fall apart, the more pressure my parents put on me to come home. He took me out of the dorms, he moved me in with his family in this huge, fancy house, and he and his wife treated me like one of their own. Coach Morelle helped make me the quarterback I am and the cook I am, too.” He grins over at me, and the look is warm and open, a man who knows who he is and is completely comfortable with himself.

I spear noodles on my fork, twisting them around it and taking a huge bite.

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