Page 31 of Stick Work

“Turkey is in the oven already?” I ask when I see the oven light on.

“It’s a big one. Had to get it on early.”

“I can’t wait.” A warm feeling curls around me like a comforting blanket. I love my brother, and honestly, I wish he was here with us, because he’d enjoy eating around a table with a family as much as I do. But he’s with Sahara, and I’m sure he’s having a wonderful time. It’s strange I haven’t heard from him. Although like Elias said, maybe that’s a good thing.

Just thinking of Elias sends waves of longing and need through me. Great, after this weekend, I’m worried I’m going to be craving the man, and that can’t happen. I take another drink of coffee. “This is delicious, Grandma.”

She beams. “I can hook you up,” she tells me as I pick up her e-reader. “Let me grab the waffle maker.” She winks at me. “Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.”

Why do I get the feeling she’s talking about Elias and me?

I gulp down my worry and do a search for Brandon’s books. I download a few books as Grandma gets out the waffle maker and a bunch of ingredients. “Are Cheryl and Randall still sleeping?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Once they smell the waffles, they’ll be down.”

“Elias too.” I grin. He’s not down yet and I suspect he’s giving me quiet time with Grandma. The man knows how much I miss mine and the fact that he’s lingering upstairs warms me in way that’s dangerous for my heart.

Grandma comes back to the table with a recipe card and pen and slides it to me. “Don’t worry, this will be my little secret.”

“You have to share with Cheryl.” I begin to jot down the recipe and instructions.

She winks at me. “In good time.” She slides me another card with the lasagna recipe. “Keep this guarded.”

I salute her and laugh. “You have my word, and I promise to make it for Elias.”

“Good.”

I finish writing out the waffle recipe, the secret ingredient being a dash of cream of tartar, and a little bit of orange zest. Once done, I drain my coffee cup and stand. “Let’s get started.” Grandma hands me a blue apron, like she already knows I’m a messy cook and I grin. She really is a sly one. I tug it on and she pulls on a flowery, frilly one.

She claps her hands. “Okay, let’s get to work, girly.”

I laugh at that and place the recipe on the counter. Grandma gathers the rest of the ingredients, and I heat the waffle iron. She hums along and we talk about the weather, and her knitting club, and my acting classes. It’s an easy conversation, one that I could be having with my own grandmother and it fills me with happiness.

I pour the wet liquid into the flour, and watch Grandma stir gently. This isn’t her first waffle rodeo. Laughing, I mention, “Our friend Noah Jonesburg from the Bucks used to make his daughter pancakes. When they were lumpy, he told her the lumps were wish lumps.” Grandma chuckles. “She wished for a mom.” My heart pinches as I think back to Mom.

“Did she get one?”

I wipe my face with the back of my hand as I think about Brighton and Noah. “Yeah, she did,” I say quietly. “If you could wish for anything, what would it be?”

“For my grandson to be happy and in love,” she says softly as she grabs a cloth and washes off the batter I’d clearly smeared on my cheek. Everything in her action tugs at my heart, and I take a fast breath. Another relaxed shrug of her shoulders and then, “Since that’s already happened, lumps will be wasted on me.”

Her response catches me off guard, and my heart stalls. “How do you know he’s happy and in love?” He might be happy, but in love? No. Grandma has it wrong this time.

Another casual shrug. “I can tell he’s happy and in love by the way he looks at you.” There’s a new kind of contentment about her, one I didn’t see right away last night.

“How does he look at me?” I ask, my voice a bit shaky.

“Like you’re the only thing that matters in this universe.”

A rustling sound pulls me from her words, and I turn to find Elias leaning against the archway, ankles crossed, his eyes locked on me. The sight of him does the craziest things to my pulse, and it could be because I’m emotional from cooking with Grandma and missing my grandma and my mom. But what is the look in his eyes? I swallow at the familiarity in it as I recall the last time I saw it. Last night.

Before I can catch myself, I whisper, “That look…” My gaze darts to Grandma, but she’s busy stirring, her movements unhurried. She might as well be miles away, though I know she hears every word.

“What look?” Elias asks, his voice low and husky as he straightens to his full height.

It’s the same look he gave me last night, warm and tender, yet hungry and full of want. But it can’t be love. It can’t be love.

This is just a ruse, right?

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