Page 14 of Fall For You

“Want something to drink?” he asks, stepping into the tiny alcove that passes for a kitchen. I’m surprised at first, because I know how much he loves cooking. And this set-up appears to be even more makeshift than the kitchen in his trailer. But I guess, when you have an entire restaurant right downstairs, you don’t need much more.

I nod in response. “Sure. What’ve you got?”

“Well, let’s see…” He opens the fridge then immediately checks himself, a small frown furrowing his brows. “Hmm. Well…” Since I assume his refrigerator is kept stocked by the same person who’s responsible for the unlived-in look of his apartment (AKA, him) I’m not surprised if it’s predictably close to empty. “There’s, uh…not that much, actually. I’ve got beer, cider, a coupla bottles of Topo Chico, some sweet tea…”

“Beer sounds good,” I say. And I guess it sounds good to him as well. He grabs two bottles and hands me one. I glance at the label and notice it’s the same craft brew that Cash had ordered, which could be awkward. But I don’t say anything, and neither does he, and the moment passes.

There’s a bottle opener built into the pony wall beneath the counter, with a bucket hanging beneath to catch the caps. Once we’ve opened our bottles, Carter leads the way toward a small dinette table in the main living space. He pushes aside the stacks of mail and paperwork that apparently live there, and invites me to, “Have a seat,” which I do.

“So, what kind of stuff do you need from me?” he asks as he starts unboxing the food he brought from downstairs.

“Hmm?” My mouth is watering and I’m momentarily distracted by the delicious aromas. “Oh. Okay. Hold on,” I say. I retrieve a notebook and pen from my bag, pull out my phoneand navigate to the screen where I’d listed the topics I wanted to address with him.

“We already went over a lot of this,” I remind him. “I’ll need a copy of the menu, as soon as it’s finalized, along with any other details you have that I can use to spark interest—vendors whose food you’ll be using, etc. That way I can get to work on getting the souvenir menus printed. And I can also work up a basic press release to start sending out.”

Carter nods absently, but I can’t tell if he’s even listening. He seems preoccupied. I think the bulk of his attention is focused on the dishes of food he’s plating for us—which, don’t get me wrong, I certainly appreciate. Men who make it a priority to see that I’m properly and regularly fed are my kryptonite, for sure. But it’s also distracting as fuck. Because broody, preoccupied, uber-serious Carter is as much a snack as the food.

I don’t even realize that I’ve fallen silent until Carter glances over at me and asks, “So? Is that it?”

“What?” I blink at him while my brain struggles to process the question. The dawning surprise onhisface causesmyface to heat as I realize I’ve just been caught drooling over his biceps.

“I said, is that all youneed?” His lips are curled in a faint smile, but I can’t decide if he intends, or is even aware of, the slight emphasis I hear (or think I hear) on the word ‘need’. Are we back to playing games now? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

Either way, frustration has me snapping in response, “No. Of course not. Since you mention it, I’ll also need access to the restaurant’s social media pages, so that I can create an event page and start sending out invites.” Ideally, of course, the restaurant would have a website by now, but they don’t. And spending time now putting one together isn’t a good use of anyone’s time.

“Okay. I can do that,” Carter says, sliding one of the plates in front of me and then seating himself. “Do you want to take a break while we eat?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. There’s no sense in that. We can talk while we eat.”

In truth, I’m afraid we’ll start chatting over dinner and it will begin to feel like old times. Like it did when we were young and naïve, making plans for a future we’d never have.

So instead, I stay focused on the task in front of us. And in between bites of roast chicken (redolent of garlic, lemon and thyme, with a perfectly crisp skin), fluffy oven-fried potatoes and a creamy gratin of root vegetables) I quickly take us through the remaining items on my list.

Carter reluctantly vetoes the photo booth as being too expensive, which I can’t really argue with, much as I’d’ve liked to. And I reserve the right to price photographers, instead.

He’s enthusiastic about the idea of signature cocktails, and promises to work up recipes for those in the next few days. And I also get him to agree with my ideas for centerpieces. Originally, he wanted to go with generic flowers (roses or carnations, or something like that) in generic vases. But what did any of that have to do with Heartwood?

Instead, I talk him into letting me create individual centerpieces using candles from a local company (thereby adding another vendor to the mix) set in a selection of antique glasses and goblets that I’d source from several of our local antique stores. Initially, of course, I thought I’d just be pulling things from my aunt’s store. But Carter was adamant that we should not appear to be showing too much favoritism, so it looks like I’ll be paying Ms. Bev a visit after all.

“Well, I think we got a lot done tonight,” Carter says as he gets to his feet and starts piling up dishes in preparation toclearing the table and (unless I’m misreading him, which I don’t think I am) kicking me out.

“I agree,” I say, as I get up too and begin to help. “This was great. I’ve got more than enough info now to get started first thing in the morning.”

“Right. And, uh…speaking of the morning, I’ve got to be up early. So why don’t I walk you to your car now?”

“Okay, sure,” I say as I gather my stuff together—which basically consists of just shoving everything back into my bag. I feel unsettled. This is a new experience for me, being kicked out of Carter’s place. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before and…it stings.

And maybe I don’t deserve a second chance, but I need to at least try and clear the air a little. “Look, Carter, before I go… I know you said this wasn’t what Cash was talking about, but either way, I just really want to tell you again how sorry I was—and still am—about your dad.”

“Thanks,” he says, depositing the plates, boxes, and cutlery he was carrying into the sink—even though I’m pretty sure he’s not planning on washing out the to-go boxes. He turns to face me, looking tired and sad and borderline lost.

And I hate it. I want to wrap my arms around him and make the pain go away, like I should have done, wish I could have done, a decade ago. It kills me to realize that he probably wouldn’t welcome that now. That we’re no longer on those terms. And knowing that it was my fault, that I’m the one who wrecked things between us…that’s still the worst part. “I hope you know that I would never have left town when I did, if I’d known.”

“Yep,” he nods disinterestedly. “I know.”

“And do you also know how…how badly I’ve always felt that I wasn’t there for you? I would have wanted to be, if I...”

“I know,” he repeats impatiently. “You told me this already.”

---