Page 29 of Keeping You
The wine glasses are next, the crystal catching the setting sun through the patio door, sending ribbons of light dancing over thetabletop. I exhale on a shaky laugh. There’s no need to be this rattled. It’s just Luke. Just dinner.
Just fake dating.
From the kitchen, the sound and aroma of roasting chicken permeates the air, the sizzle of butter melting into skin that's crisping to golden perfection, the scent of garlic, fresh rosemary, and thyme combining into a mouthwatering aroma.
Mom's recipe. Simple but foolproof. When I pulled it out earlier, I ran my fingertips over the worn recipe card, the edges soft from years of handling. The paper was so thin between my fingers that it was almost translucent in spots, where butter or oil stains had made it nearly transparent. Nikki has the same familiar handwriting, though she makes her loops bigger.
The oven timer gives a soft preliminary beep, letting me know there are thirty minutes left. I wipe my damp palms on my dress, the cotton smooth beneath my fingers, and try to ignore the way my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s desperate to escape.
This is for show, I remind myself. Part of the plan. But as I strike a match and watch the candles flicker to life, their glow spilling across the table I’ve fussed over for an hour, I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince anymore.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven, and I nearly drop the box of matches.
I shove them into a cabinet over the fridge and smooth my dress again, like that will help. For the fifth time tonight, I fight the urge to change clothes. But the casual navy wrap with just enough cleavage to be interesting will have to do.
I take a deep breath.
Then another.
And one more for good measure as I walk to the door, my pulse pounding like a warning. I rest my hand on the doorknobfor a moment and shut my eyes, mouthing a quick prayer that I’m not making a huge mistake. Then I open the door.
Luke stands on my porch, holding a gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers and a bottle of wine. He’s wearing dark jeans and a button-down black cotton shirt that enticingly stretches across his shoulders. His boots are freshly polished, and his hair is still damp on the ends. The scent of clean soap mingles with the sweetness of the flowers, and he looks so good I want to eat him up. The tentative smile on that perfectly scruffy face weakens my knees.
I could fall for this man all over again.
“Right on time,” I say, clearing my throat as I step back to let him in.
“I aim to please.”
I take the flowers, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Heat sparks where our skin grazes. “Thank you. These are beautiful.”
“Picked them myself.” The tops of his cheeks are a bit pink. “From the field behind my mom’s house.”
“Really?” I raise a brow, surprised by the personal touch.
“You used to love wildflowers,” he says simply.
And there it is, that warm, gooey feeling in the pit of my stomach. He remembers.
I lead him to the kitchen, busying myself with arranging the wildflowers in a crystal vase my mother left me, while he finds the corkscrew in the drawer I point to. The wine bottle gives a satisfying pop as he works the cork free, and then he grabs the goblets from the table, pouring two generous glasses.
We move around each other with a heightened awareness, like dancers learning a new routine. Every accidental brush of arms or shoulders creates this electrifying sizzle; each motion carries an unspoken promise of something more. The anticipation coils in my stomach, and I realize I’m along for the ride, whether I like it or not.
“Something smells amazing.” He’s near enough that his body heat radiates off him.
“My mom's roast chicken. Nothing fancy.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m too aware of his nearness and how it makes my pulse stutter.
“I remember your mom's cooking,” he says softly, eyes tracing the curve of my shoulder as he speaks. “She sometimes fed me when I came over to pick up Harper.”
The mention of his sister tugs at a thread of friction in the room, but I push past it, focusing on the small contact of his body brushing mine and the subtle fragrance of soap and wildflowers that clings to him.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t we take our wine to the living room while we wait?” I intend to go for casual, but I’m positive the slight quiver in my voice betrays me.
“Sure.” He hands me a glass, and our fingers touch again, lingering this time, a whisper of heat against my skin.
Tipping my head back, I meet his gaze, and he’s so focused on me, it’s like looking up to the sky and being warmed by the sun. I take a slow sip of wine, letting the rich berry notes bloom across my tongue, all while sneaking glances at him over the crystal rim. The subtle brush of his knee against mine makes my breath hitch.
His eyes darken, and the space between us seems to shrink, a magnetic pull neither of us can resist.
