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Mom: Of course, Daisy dear. It’s just easier to do them here. Can you imagine trying to drive down the street with a turkey in the trunk?
Daisy: That sounds like something Maggie would do.
Mom: It does, doesn’t it? Maggie dear, does your car still smell like meatloaf when it’s hot?
Me: First of all, I wouldn’t be silly enough to drive with a turkey in the trunk. I would make Ophie hold it in her lap. And second, I’m not driving two hours to Seattle with cooked meat in the car, that’s disgusting and unsanitary. Ophie and I will bring pie and bread rolls.
Me: It was bbq pulled pork, not meatloaf. And no. I’ve had my car detailed since then.
Annoyed, I stuff my phone in my purse. Trust my family to remind me of all the times I’ve acted without thinking. It’s not like I intended to spill an entire chafing dish of meat drenched in barbeque sauce all over my backseat—how is it my fault that the caterer left it behind and that a baby duck would choose that exact moment to walk out in front of my car?
Normally, Ophie would be the first person I’d tell about my news, but she’s in class right now. I stare at Kel’s name in my contacts, debating if I should text him or not.
I have no idea how he’s going to react to my text. He’s so fucking practical I don’t know if it would occur to him to chat over text before our date. But something tells me his lack of communication isn’t from lack of interest—it’s because he spends his time focused on the people in front of him and his inner circle. If I want into that circle, I’m going to have to push my way in.
Me: So, I just had a meeting with a potential new client. If I get this contract it’s going to be a big deal for my business. I’m excited and didn’t have anyone else to tell my news.
I force myself to tuck my phone back into my purse without waiting for a response. I know Kel is in the middle of harvest—I’ve been checking Sunshine Cellars’ social media posts, and he’s probably too busy to stop and talk with me.
When my phone buzzes again under my shoulder, I assume it’s my mother or older sister responding to my message and ignore it until I get back to my car.
I’ve been trying to downplay how much I’m looking forward to our date on Thursday, but when I see it’s in fact not my mother digging at me once again but Kel, I can’t help the excited squeak that escapes me.
DILF Pickle: Congrats, that’s really exciting. I can’t wait to hear all about it on Thursday.
While I have his attention, I push to see if I can get him to chat a little longer.
Me: Thanks. How’s harvest going? Hopefully, none of your extra crew are as clumsy as me and you haven’t had to stitch anyone else up.
I’m rewarded for my effort with an immediate response. I grin at my phone as I start the engine.
DILF Pickle: Nope, no stitches needed. At least not yet. Don’t jinx me though—I don’t mind letting a beautiful woman sleep on my couch because I’m worried about her, but I draw the line at one of these guys. I’m pretty sure Carlos hasn’t washed his socks in days. I can smell them from here.
Me: Did you just make a joke? I didn’t know you knew how.
Me: And yes, I did notice you called me beautiful.
I snap a quick selfie of myself in the car but waffle on sending it to him or not. Are we at a selfie-sharing stage? Does he even take selfies?
Instead of letting myself overthink, I put my car in gear and head home. My foot is still sore, but the doctor said I could drive as long as it wasn’t long distances. Thankfully, Angela and Scott agreed to meet me down here in Beaverton instead of having to drive downtown.
The condo is quiet when I walk in. Ophie won’t be home for hours, which means now is the perfect time for me to get some work done. But first, I need to see if Kel responded to my text. The riot of butterflies in my stomach can’t be contained much longer.
DILF Pickle: Aren’t you the one who pointed out that I only say things I mean? Looking forward to Thursday—it might be the only thing getting me through this week.
Kel
Maggie is waiting for me in the lobby of The Hoxton when I rush through the door, the valet still handing me the claim check for my car.
“Sorry I’m late. A cleat on the conveyor got knocked out of place and it took ages for us to figure out what was wrong.” A breeze from the door opening behind me brushes past my damp hair, and I shiver. I showered so quickly that the water barely had time to warm up. It had mostly dried in the car on the drive to the hotel where the restaurant is, but the late October breeze is unusually chilly this week. I’ve been anxiously watching the weather reports for news of an overnight freeze, but so far, it’s held off.
The moment Maggie smiles at me, all my doubts about making the effort to see her vanish. “I was early, and I appreciated you letting me know.” Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid and a dark blue sweater hugs the curves of her body. Loose brown pants don’t quite hide the thick black boot her doctor must have put her in. Her coat is draped over her arms, the hood still damp from the wet weather.
I rake my eyes over her face, checking to see if the scratch on her temple is still visible. “How are you feeling? How’s the foot?”
Maggie tips her head to the side, eyeing me for a moment. Then she shrugs and slips her arms beneath mine, hugging me until I hug her back. The tight knot in my chest loosens at her touch, and I take a deep breath. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Maggie steps back, her arms falling away from me, leaving me adrift. I don’t like that eighteen inches of space between us is making me feel that way, so I shove my hands in my pockets and back up. “You ready to eat?”
