Page 43 of Falling for Autumn Again

“French food? Italian food?” Why did we pick a bistro again? Oh, yeah—my idea. “I’m guessing school would have helped.”

“I don’t know a soul who’d turn down your pasta primavera.” Her penciled brows raise. My pasta primavera is pretty delicious. She’s not wrong there.

Still, I’m working so hard on the farm that I rarely have time to even try out recipes. When am I supposed to practice my craft? Is this even going to work? Am I digging a hole and tossing Dessie and Don in with me?

I lean against her kitchen counter, my eyes wandering around the room and stopping on her refrigerator door. All of my doubts and thoughts come to a screeching halt. “Is that—” I stand straight, walk over, and pick up the photo clipped to the door with a magnet.

I stare at myself—my body bending at the waist, lunging with my arms stretched out, while Ezra is nothing but a blur as I shove him away from me.

“Seriously? This is the one on your fridge?”

“You know it.” Dessie smiles, reaching for the plate on the counter. “My two favorite kids—other than my own kids, of course—back together again. It’s about darn time.”

About time? What is she up to? Does she not understand that I die a little every second I’m near him? I groan.

“Oh hush now,” she says. “We both know you’re still in love with that boy.”

“Dessie Linus! I am not.” A sharp hiccup escapes my lips and I cover my mouth with my palm.

Dessie lifts one accusing brow as she fills my plate with jumbo shrimp and veggies. Spices and tang waft in my direction as she hands me the plate. That mischievous look still on her face. She sets both her hands on her hips and laughs as if I'm the newestcomedic act come to Love just for her enjoyment. "Ohh, we both know that’s not true.”

And maybe we do. But can she not see that I am in survival mode?

“Dessie,” I say, making my tone a warning. “Why is Ezrahere?” I need to nip this meddling in the bud.

“Well, I’d think that’s pretty obvious.”

Every ounce of blood drains from my face. I need to take off my flannel before I overheat and collapse right here, right now. “Holy Saint Peter—”

“He’s here to help with your bistro.”

I breathe out.The bistro.Right. My beating heart calms the tiniest of levels. “The bistro,” I say and I sound winded, like I just finished first in the annual Love half marathon.

She sprinkles a touch of salt over her shrimp—the dish she just taught me to season perfectly, by the way. “And of course, there may beotherreasons…”

Why does the wordothersound like a threat out of that sweet woman’s mouth?

“Dess,” Don calls from the living room. “Ezra’s here.”

“Ezra!” I bark out an accusatory whisper. “Dessie, no warning? What are you doing to me?”

“He’s been eating dinner with us since he got here.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I’m not doing anything to you. That’s Ezra’s job.”

“Dessie!” I say in a hushed scold.

“What?” She looks at me as if I’m the crazy one here.

I’m not. It’s her. It’s absolutely her!

“I am innocent,” she says. “Mostly.”

“You are not! You are guilty. Guiltier than guilty! And I… Iwill not…”

“Will not what, Autumn Pie? You can’t stop what’s meant to be. You can’t help your feelings.”

My cheeks burn at her words. “I…” I say, drawing out the word, giving myself time to figure out exactly how I want to finish this sentence. “I will not eat this shrimp!”

I smack the plate onto the counter and storm from the room. Sure, I have to pass Don and Ezra to get to the exit, but there’s no other way to escape.

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