Page 61 of Falling for Autumn Again

My nerves are a jumbled mess. Why did I agree to Ezra coming over? Why is he wearing a sweater that covers his chiseled forearms and makes his shoulders look as if they've turned into boulders? Why did I change my clothes? I can cook and talk in dirty jeans and a T-shirt. But nope, I had to put on my black leggings and that ivory blouse I found in the back of my closet when searching for professional clothes. The one I decided wasn’t appropriate to interview in. I should have thrown it out then. But instead, I came home and decided that tonight was the perfect night to try it out.

What is wrong with me?

I’m realizing now that none of my choices make sense. And I want a do-over. Somebody rewind the night and let me change into sweats and an old ratty Love High School T-shirt.

I’m tempted to excuse myself and change, but I’ve got to get that pasta in sauce quick, and Ezra is waiting on the porch for me to open the door.

I swallow. “Ah, come in!” I call before spooning my pasta onto two plates.

“Whoa. Autumn,” Ezra says, walking back into the kitchen. “Chicken parmesan?” He smiles and yep, I want a big ol’ do-over. Chicken parm was a bad idea. “It smells amazing in here.”

He’s not wrong. It does.

My chicken parm is amazing. Dang it.

“Yeah. Well. You wanted to meet and I have to eat.” I swallow. “I mean, I’m not an animal, so if you want to eat too, you can. Whatever.” I give the most nonchalant shrug anyone has ever given.

Ezra’s laugh is low and resides in his chest. That broad, built chest that decided to expand in the past ten years. Holy smokes, it’s warm in here. I really need to get a fan installed.

“I’d love to eat.”

“Fine. Whatever,” I say, but every one of my nerve endings has decided that we are on high alert. And crazed. I have lost all control. I want it known that if I have a heart attack and die this very night, it’s all Ezra Bennett’s fault.

Whoa.

Harsh, Autumn.

Okay—I take it back. It's not all Ezra's fault. But he's not innocent either.

I set one hand to his chest and push him three feet back, into the living room. “You stay here. Sit. I’ll dish up,” I tell him before hurrying back to hide in the kitchen.

I arrange Ezra’s plate as if he were a food critic and I might be judged on this performance. I huff, annoyed with myself. Ezra Bennett is not the judge and jury here. In fact, he works for me. Okay… he works for the Linus’s, and in a roundabout way, that means he works for me.

I could so fire him.

Maybe…

If Dessie would let me.

And yet, I assemble his plate until it looks like a work of art. Someone should take a photo and hang it on an Olive Garden wall because this is a pretty plate. The sprig of green cilantro on top makes every color pop.

I pick up his plate, thankful he’s not in here watching me work, and walk it out to him.

He stares at a photo of Summer and me last year at the Fourth of July parade. “Summer is all grown up,” he says to me, though he’s still looking at the photo. “It’s weird. She should still be fifteen.”

“It happens. Here.” I hold the plate out to him. “You can sit at the table back in the kitchen or on the couch. Wherever you’re comfortable.”

“Thanks, Autumn. This looks amazing.” His hazel eyes rise to mine and smolder.

What the heck? He has no right to be smoldering when this is clearly aworkdinner. I did not take the tags off of this V-neck blouse for him or for smoldering but for the sake of business.

My fingers grip the plate while he tries to take it. I’m just not sure this is a good idea. What was I thinking, cooking for Ezra? I can’t let him take this plate. It says too much. He needs to understand. “This is about work. About the bistro. You brought all your blueprints and builder information, right? Because if not, you can go.”

“I brought it,” he says, with a small tug on his dinner plate.

"You're sure?" I tug right back because he's not getting this dinner unless it's as the architect who Dessie sneakily hired behind my back. He's not allowed to be here as Ezra, the boy who stole my heart and makes mefeelthings.

“I’m sure,” he says, tugging at the same second I decide to give up.

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