Page 86 of Blindly Yours

“Fair enough.” Rob smirks, then he turns back to the stove. “Hey, my Ranger’s running a little rough since Saturday.” He juts his thumb toward the door. “Think you could take a quick peek under the hood before you head back home?”

“Sure thing,” I reply, swallowing my last bite and washing it down with the rest of my Coke.

I pull out my wallet but he stops me with his hand up. “It’s on the house.”

I shake my head and repocket it. “You keep giving me free meals and I’m going to eat you out of business.”

“Yeah, but if you can diagnose my truck for free, you’ve just saved me a couple hundred. I’d say it’s a smart trade.”

“Fair enough,” I echo his earlier words, then I stand and follow him out the door.

***

A week later, I’m sprawled out on Rose’s sofa, thumbing through a magazine filled with a bunch of models wearing all forms of nonsensical clothing.

“I’ll never understand high fashion,” I call toward her in the kitchen. “I mean, this woman looks like she’s wearing a shower loofa on her head.”

“It’s all about pushing the envelope,” she replies. “The designers know no one is actually going to wear those exact outfits, but small elements get picked up in trends for the year.”

I shake my head. “I sure hope I don’t see loofa hats on shelves this fall.”

Rose laughs from out of sight, and I hear a metal spatula go clanking to the ground. “Oops!” she yelps. “Give me like five more minutes. It’s almost ready.”

She’s making me dinner tonight, and I’ve been instructed to ‘not help one bit.’ So here I sit, reading fashion magazines and fighting to keep my mouth shut every time she sounds like she’s in trouble on the other side of the wall.

I told her I’d help her learn to cook, but she wants to try for herself first. I have no idea what she’s making, but it smells Italian, and I plan to love it no matter how it tastes.

I’ve been in her apartment only a few times before tonight, and just briefly, so I’m finally enjoying the opportunity to really admire it.

Clean lines and smooth surfaces. There’s not an ounce of natural material in this place, apart from the floor, which is a wide-planked white oak; bright and modern. It’s not often you see hardwood floors in newly built high-rise residences anymore. Too tricky to save if there’s a leak. Too much of a liability. But these are expensive units, so the landlord probably thinks a floor replacement is just a drop in the bucket.

Earlier, I took a quick peek out the window at the balcony that overlooks the city, but my stomach twists when I consider getting any closer to the edge. If I lived in a place like this, I don’t think I’d ever go outside.

While Rose cooks, I’ve also been getting to know her cat, Daisy. I swear she’s the same cat on those Fancy Feast commercials; fluffy, white, and perfectly groomed. She’s currently curled up next to me, having accepted my pets for just seven seconds before nipping my hand in a warning to stop. I’m not offended though. I may have grumbled the first time I learned that Rose had a cat—I’m strictly a dog person—but Daisy’s warm little figure pressed against my leg is pretty comforting.

Eventually, Rose comes around the corner looking amusingly disheveled. Her apron is splattered with what I can only assume is some kind of tomato sauce and her hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks three minutes from coming undone.

With her hands on her hips, she blows a few strands of hair from her face. “Ok, it’s ready.”

“Great,” I chuckle, giving Daisy one more scratch as I push myself off the sofa and follow Rose to the polished white dining table. “So, what are we having?”

“Spinach and ricotta ravioli with tomato vodka cream sauce.” She peels off her apron and sinks to her chair. “And roasted garlic French bread.”

I take in the spread as I sit down. It smells delicious. “Did you buy the ravioli from that little shop on the corner? I’ve been thinking of picking some up.”

Rose’s eyes turn to mine. “No, I made them.”

I pause with my fork in my hand. “Youmadethe ravioli? Like, the pasta part?”

She nods. “Yeah, wasn’t I supposed to?”

“I’venever made ravioli, or any kind of pasta for that matter.” I laugh. “Most people just pick it up at the store and maybe make the sauce. Homemade ravioli is not a beginner’s recipe.”

She wipes her hand across her forehead and stares at her meal. “Oh, well, I just figured buying it from the store would be cheating.”

I smirk at her. “You could have made me boxed mac and cheese and I would have loved it. But this looks really, really delicious.”

“We’ll see,” she sighs, pouring us each a glass of wine.

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