Page 90 of Catch the Sun

I hop over power tools and buzz saws, racing ahead of him to get rid of Ella. It must be Ella. Clearly, she misheard me and thought we were meeting here.

When I reach the small foyer, I yank open the door and come face-to-face with pure beauty.

Words jumble in my throat, catching on my stalled breaths. “Hey.”

Ella is a stunner in a little black dress, her hair styled in ribbons of dark-red curls that flow over both shoulders. And in her hands is a foil-wrapped dish. She holds it up high. “I brought the brisket.”

She brought the brisket.

She brought the brisket.

I’m not sure whether to yell at her or vomit out a love confession. I settle for a few slow blinks, my eyes panning from the dish in her hands to her face. She’s wearing a touch of makeup, her lips ruby red and her eyelids painted with silvery shadow. Long, inky lashes flutter back at me as her smile lifts, looking brighter. “You…brought brisket,” I repeat dazedly.

She nods. “I did. You said you didn’t have an oven.”

“We hardly have a suitable table to eat at. It’s a folding table with garage-sale chairs.”

“I’m adaptable.”

You’re perfect.

That’s what I want to say, but my father makes his way over to the open door and pokes his head around me.

“Aren’t you lovely?” he says with an air of magic in his tone. “Max, look at her. She’s beautiful.”

Dad latches onto my shoulder with a proud squeeze. I finally make a coughing sound and take a step back, knowing I have no choice but to let her inside. “Yeah, she is.”

Ella spears me with a smile and passes through the threshold, her gaze dancing around the messy living area. Normally, I try my best to keep things clean and uncluttered in my limited free time, but we just started this reno, so the space is worse than it’s ever been. There’s dust and Sheetrock everywhere. There’s a blue tarp over the couch because it’s the one piece of decent furniture we own and I didn’t want it to get ruined by paint and falling debris.

Only one word can sum up how I’m feeling right now as this gorgeous girl I’m quickly falling for assesses my current living conditions.

Mortified.

But her smile doesn’t waver as she glances around and then peers back over at me. “Thanks for having me over.”

I sigh through a weak glare. “Totally.”

Dad nods at the adjoining kitchen. “Let’s get the table set up. I’m starved. I can’t remember the last time I had a nice hot helping of brisket. Did you make this yourself?” he asks Ella.

“Yes,” she says. “Let’s just say my mother won’t be auditioning forMasterChefanytime soon.”

“Impressive.”

It is impressive. I’m not sure what’s more impressive—Ella cooking us brisket, or the fact that my father is coherent, sober, and wearing a full-on suit. My emotions are all over the place. Embarrassment warms my skin, but seeing my father like this warms my heart. And seeing Ella in a pretty dress with curls in her hair and a smile on her face warms my whole damn soul.

She trots over to the folding table in clunky heels and sets down the foiled dish. “Do we need plates or silverware? I’m happy to run back home for anything.”

“We’re good.” I make my way to a hall closet to grab an old tablecloth before pulling Mom’s vintage dishware out of a cupboard. There’s leftover spaghetti we can warm up for a side. We also have one of those premade salad kits and a jar of French dressing. And a half-full jug of orange juice.

It’ll have to do.

Chair legs squeak against the raw underfloor when my father pulls a chair out for Ella. I monitor them carefully as I move from counter to fridge to cupboard.

“You and my son are high school sweethearts, yes?” Dad probes, making a slow descent down to his own chair across the table from her. He leans his cane against the plastic, floral-patterned tablecloth. “Met my wife back in sophomore year of high school. Got her roses every single day until graduation. I know you’ll make my son very happy.”

Ella flusters, toying with a long curl. “Oh, I don’t…” She seems to catch herself, clear her throat, and flicks her eyes to me. “Thank you. You’ve raised agreat son, Mr. Manning.”

I’ve raised myself for the last six years, but I don’t say that. Plopping a lump of spaghetti into a cast-iron pan, I crank on the wood-burning stove.

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