Page 7 of The Story of Us
Rick laughed, and Jamie glared at him. Seriously? He was mocking her when she knew his deepest, darkest secret?
“Is this for couples only?” Lucy pulled a face. She definitely wasn’t part of a couple, which made it even more frustrating that Rick couldn’t bring himself to confess his feelings for her.
Jamie had come close to telling her about a million times, but Rick had sworn her to secrecy. Besides, she generally liked to limit her meddling to eavesdropping on couples getting engaged in her courtyard.
Still, it was just so obvious. How Lucy had gone this long without figuring it out was a complete and total mystery. Maybe if Lucy read more Agatha Christie and less H. G. Wells, she would’ve picked up on a clue and realized that Rick worshipped the ground she walked on.
“No, no, no. All sorts of singles will be there.” Rick spread his arms open wide. “Including yours truly.”
Okay, maybe they were finally getting somewhere.
“Yeah, but you’re teaching, so you don’t count,” Lucy said, handing the invitation back to him.
Then again, maybe not.
“He counts,” Jamie blurted out.
But it was too late. Lucy was already darting toward the café counter to help a customer eyeballing the cupcakes. Darn her and her excellent work ethic.
“Thanks,” Rick muttered with a sigh.
“Cooking class?” Jamie shook her head.
She was trying her best to be supportive, she really was, but things were getting ridiculous. This new Valentine’s cooking class was just the latest in a long string of restaurant events he’d manufactured for the sole purpose of spending more time with Lucy. Last month, it had been a New Year’s Eve champagne tasting. The month before, he’d taught a gingerbread workshop. At the rate things were going, Waterford would soon become an entire town of cooking and lifestyle influencers.
“Just ask her out directly,” Jamie said in the same voice she used when reprimanding Eliot.
Rick was an incredibly talented chef and a good-looking guy—literally tall, dark and handsome. More importantly, he was kind and thoughtful, with a great sense of humor. All of which made his staggering lack of confidence in the dating department wholly baffling.
He cast a longing glance at Lucy as she prepared a flavored latte, executing a perfect heart in the foam. “What if she says no?”
What if she says yes?
“Then you’ll know,” Jamie said. “Finally.”
Rick let out another deep, weighty sigh. “I’ve got to go make some risotto.”
Ah, the risotto excuse. Jamie knew it well.
She watched him march toward the exit, studiously avoiding meeting Lucy’s gaze as he went. How much longer was this going to last? A man could only make so much risotto.
“Oh, boy,” she mumbled to herself.
Why did she get the feeling that if unrequited love had a flavor, it would taste exactly like a creamy Italian rice dish with generous amounts of shaved Parmesan?
Later that night, Jamie wrapped her coziest cardigan around herself as she stood in front of the microwave oven in her kitchen, watching her Lean Cuisine spin round and round. She would’ve killed for a plate of Rick’s infamous risotto right then, but alas, the only thing she had on hand was a frozen dinner and a nice bottle of red. At least the Lean Cuisine was spaghetti, her favorite. She’d simply have to wait until the next time she ate at Rick’s restaurant to dive into a plate of unrequited love.
It wasn’t so bad, really. She loved quiet nights at home. Plus, her dream of becoming a novelist wasn’t going to happen without spending some quality time crafting her prose. When the microwave dinged, she removed the plastic tray containing her meal and inhaled the yummy scents of oregano and marinara sauce. Right on cue, Eliot appeared from out of nowhere and began rubbing against her legs.
Meow.
Honestly, his begging was shameless sometimes.
“Eliot. Ijustfed you.” She speared a fork into the tiny pile of spaghetti and shuffled toward the dining room in her sweatpants. Eliot followed her but abandoned begging for food in favor of chasing after the pompoms on her slippers as she walked.
Jamie’s laptop sat open on the dining room table next to a yellow legal pad and a pile of discarded balls of paper, each one representing a failed attempt at chapter one of a new manuscript. But the night was young. She still had plenty of time to make some real progress on a fresh story.
Jamie had been toying with an idea for a cozy mystery with a rom-com twist for days but couldn’t seem to get going. It was beyond frustrating. She loved books. Shelived and breathedthem. How could writing one be such a struggle?
