Page 107 of The Invitation
I pick up a hand towel and throw it at him. He ducks, laughing at his own joke.
The ingredient list on the back of the box calls for a ton of eggs and a bit of milk. I gather the things from the refrigerator and take them back to the counter.
Ripley fries turkey sausage on the stovetop, whistling while he works. It’s the cutest thing in the world to watch. This tall, strong man whistling a tune from an eighties kids’ show.Who would’ve thought?
My anxiety has decreased as the morning has worn on. Everything feels worse at night. As soon as we woke up and climbed into a hot bath together, I remembered why I felt so happy yesterday.
Because I trust him.
“I think this batter needs a little sugar,” I say.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Look at it.” I lift a spoonful of the brown, slightly lumpy mixture. “It smells … not sweet.”
“It’ll be fine. Trust me. This is what I do all day.”
“Yeah, well, I eat sweet stuff all day and my taste buds are conditioned to it. You can’t just take me off the good stuff cold turkey.”
He mutters something I can’t hear, which is probably a good thing.
I go through his pantry, looking for his sugar container. I spy it on the second shelf. Standing on my tippy-toes, I pull it down.
“Found it,” I say, placing it on the counter. “You can’t hide it from me.”
A coy grin plays on his lips. “I wouldn’t want to.”
“Good, because I think … Ripley!”
His grin grows into a full smile.
I pull out a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. The jar is full of them.
My heart squeezes.He remembered. I laugh.Of course, he did. This man is something else.
“How?” I demand, smiling at him.
“How what?”
“How did you get these cookies here? Clearly, you don’t keep them around because there’s not a fun food in here. When did you get them?”
He flips over the bacon, his arm muscles flexing. “I got them delivered after I got home from the cabin.”
What?“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d be here at some point, and I’ll be damned if I ever let that cookie jar run dry.”
I drop the cookie jar onto the counter and fling myself at him. He chuckles, putting the spatula down, and picking me up.
He sets me on the counter away from the stove and I wrap my legs around his waist.
He kisses my nose. “What’s wrong? I see it on your face.”
I bury my head in his neck. “I hope you’re real.”
“What?” He laughs pulling me back so he can see into my face. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that this is all so great.You’re so great. And just a couple of days ago, I was sure you were playing with me, trying to get me to fall for you, for shits and giggles.”
