Page 10 of A Small Town Spring

“And you split your time in the city?”

“Have to go back Monday,” I say, realizing the weekend is slipping by quickly and I haven’t yet had a chance to talk to Jack about my business plans.

“You don’t work from home?”he asks as he opens the kitchen door for me to walk through first.A gentleman through and through.

“Sometimes.But I find I get better results when I’m available for in-person meetings and lunches.People have a hard time saying no to me when we’re face-to-face.I use it to my advantage.”

He passes close to me on his way to the sink, glancing at me briefly.“I can imagine.”

If we weren’t standing in the house he shares with his beautiful girlfriend, I could almost pretend he’s flirting with me.

He washes his hands and Pete and Ivy join us from her workroom.They seem to have come to some kind of arrangement, because Pete seems more relaxed.Ivy moves to stand next to Toby with the easy familiarity of long-term lovers.The stab of jealousy and longing that hits my gut makes me turn away.It shouldn’t hurt to see them together, but it does.What is my problem?I literally only met the man last night.What does my heart think it’s doing by falling for a guy it can’t have?Bad heart.No romance for you.

“So, lunch?”Ivy asks.

“Great,” Pete says enthusiastically.“Can we help?”

Ivy graciously lets Pete put napkins and silverware on the charmingly distressed round wooden kitchen table while she arranges sandwiches on plates.Toby fills the kettle with water and offers me a selection of tea bags.I pick something herbal.I don’t need to be even more on edge around him.

I try to relax as we take seats around the table.Luckily, Ivy and Toby don’t seem to be one of those touchy-feely couples who are all over each other (cough, Jack and Pete, cough) but they have a shared ease that’s enviable.Ivy said they’d been together for what—a decade?That puts any relationship I’ve ever been in to shame.Even Jack and Pete have only been together for about four years.Not that it’s a competition.

The sandwiches are tasty and we chat about the weather, each of us ready for the change of season.Pete tells us about the tulips he bought from the flower shop in town last fall that are starting to come up in his and Jack’s backyard.As we’re finishing up, a short-haired cat, entirely black except for a smudge of white on its chest, with round green eyes, trots into the room.It ignores the four humans at the table in its quest for a place to curl up, which it finds on a rag rug that’s the landing spot for a beam of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.

“Who’s that?”I ask, nodding at the beast.I’ve always considered myself a dog person, but this cat is undeniably a character.

“That’s Luna,” Toby answers.“She adopted us when we moved here.”

Ivy rolls her eyes.“You mean she conned you into adopting her.”

“She was the last one left,” Toby says defensively, as if he’s had to make this argument a number of times before.“I couldn’t let them take her to the shelter.”He looks beseechingly at Pete, then me.“She was the last of a litter that a family was giving away outside the supermarket one day.I honestly couldn’t say no.”

“She looked at you with her big eyes and you melted,” Ivy grumbles, but she doesn’t sound truly upset.

Toby grins at his girlfriend.“What can I say?I’m a soft touch for big, beautiful eyes.”

It’s honestly adorable, except that instead of responding to the compliment, Ivy pushes back from the table hurriedly.“I have some biscuits if anyone wants something sweet.”

“If by biscuits you mean cookies, I’m interested,” Pete says.

Toby says nothing, and I wonder if I’m imagining the tension between them.Perhaps it’s not all paradise for him and Ivy.Not that it matters.He’s given no indication of being anything besides straight.

Maybe it’s time to leave.I decline the cookies—store-bought, not Beck’s, and therefore not worth eating—but Pete munches on two, bottomless pit that he is, all six-foot-whatever with a metabolism to match.

“Thank you for showing us your work,” I say.“Toby, take my number and we can set up a time for you to come take pictures.”

“Take pictures?”Ivy asks.

“Toby’s going to do a painting for me.Of my cottage,” I say breezily.

“He is?”She sounds skeptical.

“Apparently.”Toby’s tone is dry, but he sends me a small smile.“You better take my number instead and text me yours.I couldn’t find my phone this morning, but I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

I whip out my phone from my trouser pocket and carefully type in the numbers he gives me, then text him immediately.

This is Kingston James.

A stack of magazines on the kitchen counter rings shrilly in response.

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