Page 66 of Salty Pickle

And it will.

I slide the casserole into the oven and open the door to the balcony. “Come on, little one. We can hang out until Court gets back.”

Matilda lifts her head, eyes half-closed, then drops it down again. She likes her misty spot. Probably the outdoors feels better to her, even on concrete. We need hay. I wish I could walk her so she could eat shrubbery and forage, but in the city, she might eat someone’s garden or decor.

Manhattan is no place for a goat. And getting her downstairs could tip off the neighbors, who might report it.

No, we’re stuck.

I close the door and wander the living room for the hundredth time. Court moved several items, evidenced by the blank spots on his bookshelf. But he left anything high and out of Matilda’s reach. There are more books, a mixture of fiction and… huh. A ton of carpentry manuals.

I read through the titles. Tables. Chairs. Decorative boxes. He has three on bed frames. I pull one out and open it. Sawdust drifts from the pages.

He used these. Or someone did.

Many of the books show the wear and tear of being propped open, particularly on pages demonstrating tricky techniques for complex detailing. I laugh when it appears an entire pot of wood stain was spilled on one section, gluing the pages together.

I set them back and wander the room. What I look for, and don’t find, are photos. None of his family. No friends. No picnics or coworkers or out with buddies. Other than the well-loved carpentry books, this could be a staged home for a decorator or real estate agent.

I’ve wandered through his living room, dining area, kitchen, and my bedroom and bath. There’s an extra bathroom in the hall with a nautical theme and two closed doors. I assume one is a closet, but based on the placement of the other, it has to be another bedroom. I wonder what he uses it for and briefly picture the red room from Fifty Shades of Grey.

The door to his bedroom is open, but I don’t linger there. It feels like snooping. A glance inside tells me he doesn’t make his bed, which is at least one glitch in his perfect home. But it’s as impersonal as every other room, all black and silver.

His gleaming bureau is uncluttered.

I hurry back to the kitchen, not wanting to be caught looking, even for a second. I put together a salad from the vegetables, taking my time with washing and chopping each item.

Who is this man, really?

The front door opens. I step to the end of the kitchen to look through the living room. I catch only a glimpse of his sweaty form before he’s down the hall. My heart hammers painfully, and I press my hand to my chest. We’re alone in his place, and unlike last night, I’m awake. And cooking.

What will happen?

My mind spins with wild scenarios, sex on the counters, falling onto the sofa. I return to that night on New Year’s Eve. He’d been passionate but controlled.

I’d still liked it.

But that’s far removed from our situation. I shouldn’t even think of it.

The timer dings, and I check on the casserole. It’s brown and bubbly, and my head swims just looking at it. Unending hunger. That’s been my pregnancy.

I reach up for the dinner plates, but between my belly and the height, even tiptoe isn’t quite enough. I stretch my fingers as high as I can.

“I’ll get those.”

Court’s low rumble sends vibrations through me. I can smell him so distinctly, all fresh herbal shampoo and masculine soap. My body hums with his nearness as he reaches up beside me to bring down the plates.

“Smells good,” he says. “I’ve never had leeks. I’m not even sure what they are.”

This makes me laugh. “You bought them!”

“I was grabbing everything that looked Lucy-like.”

“Leeks are Lucy-like?”

“They must have been.”

I turn to the fridge and pull out the extras. “These are leeks.”

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