Page 65 of Salty Pickle

No woman has ever set foot in there, at least other than Maggie.

It’s nice.

And I don’t like thinking about it being nice.

19

LUCY

I’m not the most amazing cook in the world, but I have a lot of fresh ingredients and the internet to search for recipes.

I stare at my phone, making sure I prepare the casserole precisely as the video shows.

I want this to be exactly right. I’m so upset that I scared off Court’s housekeeper. I tried to call after her, but I didn’t dare open the front door after she fled, as Matilda was determined to get out.

“Learning something new?”

Court’s voice is so close and so startling that I jump back from the stove, straight into his chest.

His arms go around me as he laughs. “Sorry. I’m stealthy. You okay?” He makes sure I have my footing before letting me go. He has socks and a pair of sneakers in one hand.

“Yes. I didn’t hear you at all.” I glance down at his bare feet. For the first time, I’m the one in shoes. I like it. He has strong man feet, sturdy legs, and bulging thigh muscles disappear into what appear to be workout shorts.

I’m staring.

I whip around to face the stove. “I need to put it in.” Oh, God. That sounds so wrong. “The casserole. Into the oven. It’s going in the oven.” I’m a stammering mess.

He doesn’t seem to notice. “Do I have time to hit the gym downstairs?”

“About an hour.”

“That’s perfect then.” He sits at the table, pulling on his socks.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, sprinkling shredded cheese on top of the casserole for the final step.

He stands. “I’ll be back.”

“Hey, can I get a clarification on something?”

He pauses by the end of the counter. He’s something, his hair askew, a fitted T-shirt stretching over his chest, the shorts. Those strong legs. I feel a little wobbly.

“Sure.”

“Matilda. Is she confined to the balcony?”

He shrugs. How can a shrug be so sexy? “You obviously let her in here earlier.”

“It’s just—you put away the books and albums, and it seemed like a few other things as though you expected her inside.”

“I did some basic goat proofing.” He glances around. “There’s probably more she could get into unsupervised.”

“Oh, I would never give her the run of the place. But if she’s sitting with me?”

“Sure. It’s not goat jail.”

I open my mouth to thank him, but he’s already gone. The front door opens, then closes.

It feels lonelier than it did before. I examine the spread of cheese on the dish, convinced that if only I make this perfect, everything will somehow work out between us. I’m not looking to be his wife or great love. But forging a light, easy relationship before the baby comes will help smooth things over when the paternity test shows the baby is his.

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