Page 34 of When Love Is Lost and Found

"I don't think it's warm enough to go swimming," Mrs. Linder says. "I'll go out there with you and sunbathe by the pool and read a book."

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"Do you like peach cobbler?" I ask Jon as we wash the last of the dinner dishes.

"Yeah," he says, "but Mom hasn't made it in years."

"If we have some canned peaches, we can make some."

"Right now?" he asks.

"Do you think we have some in the pantry?"

"I know we do because I bought a few cans when I went grocery shopping. I like to heat them up and top them with ice cream."

"It's a straightforward recipe my grandma taught me."

I walk into the pantry and look through the dozens of cans lining the shelves. I look up and see that the peaches are on the top shelf, so I grab the folded step stool from the corner and unfold it, snapping the locks into place. I go up the steps one by one and reach up to grab some cans from the top. When I try to step off, I lose my footing and go tumbling down. I let out a tiny yelp right before two strong arms reach out and catch me before I hit the floor.

"Oh my gosh, thank you!"

"Are you okay?" Jon asks, carefully lowering me to the floor. He's close enough for me to see all the golden specks in his eyes and smell the clean scent of his cologne. His hand is on the small of my back, and I can feel its warmth through the fabric of my blouse. The only thing standing between us is the three cans of peaches I'm still holding in my hands. When my pulse picks up speed, I realize this closeness does not feel brotherly at all.

"I'm okay," I say, "I'm just clumsy by nature."

"Clumsy and beautiful," he says, smiling broadly. I can't help but smile back.

"Let me help you with those," he says, taking the cans from my hands. "Is there anything else in here you'll need to make your grandma's peach cobbler?"

"I'll need flour," I say, looking around because I'm finding it extremely distracting to keep eye contact with him.

I grab the flour in a large glass jar before walking past Jon, who's taking up more than three-quarters of the space in this small room. I thought he said he had claustrophobia. I guess this pantry and I are not triggers for him.

"Can I help you make the cobbler?" he asks, following me into the kitchen.

"So, you bake," I say.

"I bake, I grill, I cook, and I'm a quick learner."

He's leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, just like his dad does when he's in here. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How much your mannerisms remind me of your dad. You look so much like him."

"You mean tall, charming, and handsome?"

"You forgot, humble," I say, laughing out loud.

"Are we going to make dessert?" he asks.

"How about if I give you the ingredients and measurements from memory, and you put it together?"

"Oh, this is going to be fun," he says, rubbing his hands together. God, he really does have a great smile.

Twenty minutes later, he slides the cobbler into the oven and shuts the door. The look of satisfaction on his face is priceless. Is he staring again, or am I the one staring at him?

"You have a bit of flour on your face," he says.

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