Page 54 of Any Girl But You
“Hey there,” she says, setting the pans on top of the stove. “Perfect timing.”
“Everything smells amazing.” I check over her shoulder at the bubbling food. “And looks amazing. Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself. Is everything set?”
“Yep. Food is ready, wine is corked, dessert is prepped. You are officially ready to impress the hell out of your lady.” She plates up the food onto a tray, then tugs off the oven mitts and tosses them to the side. “I’m going to sneak out the back and leave you two be.”
Luna is staff, not a friend, and that is the only reason I’m not giving her a big, fat hug right now. After I came up with the idea to have a private meal here, she offered to cook, saying it was the perfect opportunity for her to get some practice for her dream profession. Someday, Luna’s going to leave me to open a catering business. And based on the way everything looks and smells, she’ll do amazing. “You are the best. I cannot thank you enough for everything.”
Luna nods with a smile, picks up the envelope of cash I paid her to cater tonight, tugs on her coat, and sneaks out the back.
I use my butt to open the swinging door, holding the large tray of food. When I set it in front of Quinn, she dips her head into the savory steam and pulls in a breath. “God, this smells like heaven. Is this chicken Kiev?”
“Yes, and grilled brussels sprouts with prosciutto and balsamic vinegar,” I say and start dishing onto her plate. “And mashed potatoes, because obviously.”
Quinn’s eyes are dancing at the food, and it looks like she is two seconds away from drooling. Once I’m done filling her plate, I scoop my own, then fill her wine glass. Quinn’s cheeks are rosy and darn near glowing, with an almost innocent look. Seeing Quinn have a first real date makes me want to do more firsts with her.
“Cheers,” I say and tap my glass against hers. The Chardonnay that a customer recommended to go with the heavier dinner tonight is delicate and a little tart and easily slides down my throat. “Happy first date.”
A blush spreads across her freckled cheeks. The flame-free candlelight casts a pretty, soft glow, and I swear I could sit in this moment forever. She cuts a piece of chicken and takes a bite. “Oh my God, this is so good.” She adds another bite before she finishes chewing the first one. “Okay, tell me every single thing about what happened with Mrs. Pinkerton.”
We spend the rest of dinner talking about the day, the Mrs. Pinkerton story, and memories of Thanksgivings growing up. As I take a second helping of the most creamy, buttery mashed potatoes I’ve ever had, and make a mental note to tell Luna how delicious they are, Quinn chats about how the holiday has been for her in the past. “Frankie and I had this favorite Chinese restaurant not too far from our place that stayed opened during Thanksgiving, so we’d gorge on egg rolls and sesame chicken,”she says. “Not a lot different from how we did it when we were younger.”
The tone is so matter-of-fact about never really celebrating Thanksgiving, and I bite back the urge to force my traditions on Quinn. There’s still a fragility to this relationship, and the last thing I want to do is smother her. But next to Christmas, Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite holiday. The food, the family, the full bellies after lunch. I help my mom in the kitchen all day, and we make a ridiculous amount of sides, from tater-tot hotdish, green bean casserole, stuffing, and candied yams. I bring pies from the shop, and the house is full of not only family, but friends and neighbors.
So, I’m really swallowing back the urge to ask Quinn, again, if she wants to join me for Thanksgiving. When I asked her last week, she was noncommittal, and that pesky little insecurity gremlin keeps edging its way into my brain, thinking I’m pushing this too fast.
When Josie and I broke up, and I went to counseling, a recurring theme was that I was terrible at communication. My eyes dip to my plate. I take a quick breath and stiffen my back. I refuse to allow my lack of communication get in the way of what Quinn and I have. She, we, us, are worth fighting for. If I’m being too pushy, I need her to tell me. Not me blocking myself. “Can I ask you something?”
The smile drops from her face at the serious tone. She lowers her glass to the table. “Of course. Everything okay?”
I nod. “Last week when I asked if you wanted to come to my family’s Thanksgiving, was that too pushy? I know we just got together, but it seemed so natural. And…it’s super informal. Like sweatpants and Vikings sweatshirts and there’s a revolving door of guests that traipse through and?—”
Her soft hand touches mine and stops me. “I am so sorry if I gave you that impression. God, I’m glad you said something. No,not too pushy. At all. I’m sorry if I blew off the invitation.” She removes her hand. “I’m freaking out more than I thought I’d be right now about the farm, and that is the day before I open. I just didn’t want people to count on me being there, and if something happened last minute and I couldn’t show, I didn’t want to seem disrespectful to your parents.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake.Duh. “This makes perfect sense.” I pick my knife and fork back up. “Well then, we’ll make a different time where we go out on snowmobiles. It’s almost a family tradition. Turkey, pie, nap, then snowmobile races.”
“Wait,” Quinn says, stabbing a fork into a brussels sprout. “You drive a snowmobile?”
“Sure do,” I say, loving the shock on her face. Every time I think Quinn knows all there is to know about me, or vice versa, something else unravels. “I keep it at my parents’ house, but we all have one. I’ll have to take you out at some point. I’m sure my mom will want to go with, too. But she’s a speed demon so be prepared we will never keep up.”
Quinn’s mouth drops open. “Debbie? No, no way.”
“Oh yes,” I say, cutting a slice of the chicken and dipping it into the sauce. “She takes no prisoners. And she’s competitive, too. She’ll absolutely tease us for driving like grandmas.”
“Debbie. Huh. Who knew?” Quinn takes a bite of potatoes, then rests her fork on the side of the plate. “I’m bummed I can’t be there. But I will love you forever if you save a big fat plate of turkey for me. With an obnoxious size of all the sides. Don’t think I can’t eat it all. I can and will.” She giggles and lifts the glass to her mouth.
I will love you forever. She said it lightheartedly, a joke really, in the context of the conversation. But I’m latching on to those words for dear life and dissecting every syllable. “You will love me…”
Quinn’s smile drops, and a seriousness flushes her face. She dips her eyes to the plate and her throat rolls with a hard swallow. “Ido…love you.”
She may have lobbed the words softly, quietly, a hesitation and fear laced in the tone, but the words land with the weight of granite. I can see the vulnerability in her eyes, the moss green highlighting against the light, the anticipation, the hope that someone loves her back. Before she can take it back, say she was joking, pass it off as an aloof comment, I reach across the table, and intertwine my fingers in hers. I rub my thumb across the satiny skin on top of her hand. “I love you, too.”
A long moment stretches between us. There is nothing that needs to be said right now. We both know the gravity of the situation, the intensity of the moment. My guess is she is feeling the same as me. Trepidation, mixed with this luxurious, velvety warmth knowing that this is something special, beautiful, something to be grateful for.
Another moment passes when I finally let go of my grip, polish off my glass of wine, and eye her through the flickering light. Opening night is so close, and I know she’s stressed, but she has everything ready. Time to take her mind off of the shop. “Ready for dessert?” I ask.
“I’malwaysready for your dessert.”
I push back my chair with a small squeak against the floor and hold out my hand. She lifts herself, interlaces her fingers in mine, and lets me lead her to the kitchen.
