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The day Savannah showered—her third day at my house—I walked back up to her cottage while she was sleeping on the sofa and brought back a duffle bag of clothes and toiletries for her. On her fourth day at my house, she was strong enough to walk downstairs on her own. She said she felt fine, but I could tell she was lightheaded. I insisted she stay another day rather than try to make it all the way up the hill to her cottage. Besides, she’d fallen asleep early in Infinity War. Since neither of us had seen it or Endgame, she stayed to watch those.
On the fifth day, she might have felt well enough to walk up to the cottage, but we hadn’t watched The Guardians of the Galaxy movies yet.
On the sixth day, she felt well enough to cook, but by then I was behind on work. She was strong enough to move back to the cottage, but I was too busy to carry Mr. Sniggles and all his gear up the hill, and I certainly couldn’t let her do it.
That cat is huge. Even if I could have helped her get him into the cat carrier, she wouldn’t be able to carry him.
On the morning of the seventh day, Mr. Sniggles was hiding under the bed and refused to come out until it was nearly dinner time.
Savannah had had groceries delivered at noon, and that probably scared him. By the time he snuck out to see if we were all okay, she’d already started making dinner.
And, yes, by this point I’d admitted the truth to myself. I don’t want her to leave.
Ever.
This past week, we’d slipped out of our boss/employee roles and into something different. Something unlike anything I’d ever had with a woman. Hell, unlike anything I’d ever had with anyone. I had no illusions that this situationship we were in meant as much to her as it did to me, but that didn’t seem to matter.
There was no one else I’d ever known that I felt comfortable just being with. But it was different with her.
Yes, I want her so badly it nearly hurts just being around her. But even this odd state of friend zone limbo is better than nothing. More importantly, she seems comfortable in the friend zone. Relaxed even as she snuggles up next to me on the sofa, our legs stretched out in front of us, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn.
She’s paused the movie, going into a mini rant lecture about the soundtrack, when I take her left hand in mine and look at her palm.
“I’ve been wanting to ask.” I trace the tattoo on her palm. It’s two concentric circles, the smaller one about the size of a nickel, the larger about the size of a half dollar.
“About the tattoos?”
I nod.
She wiggles her right arm free from under the popcorn bowl and points to the smaller circle. “This is a teaspoon.” Then she runs her finger over the larger circle. “And this is a tablespoon.”
I look from her palm back up to her face, only to get momentarily lost in the brilliance of her gaze. “A teaspoon and a tablespoon?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. While I’m cooking. So I can pour seasoning into my palm to measure it.”
I look at her palm again. “That can’t be very accurate. Especially for liquids.”
She tips her head back and laughs, practically a full-bodied guffaw. “It’s not. Especially for liquids. But for things that aren’t liquids—salt, sugar, flour, that kind of thing—it’s close enough. All of cooking is an approximation. Seasoning is affected by all the other ingredients, anyway. No two steaks are identical. No two mushrooms or squash. You can’t measure once and assume the food is well-seasoned. You have to taste it, adjust, and taste again. That’s the only way to get it right.”
I trace my finger over the lines in her palm. “Then why even bother with the measurements?”
“When I got them, I was young and less experienced. Precise measurements seemed to matter more back then. Plus, it seemed like all chefs have tattoos.” Tipping her head to the side, she studies her palm. “I don’t really use them anymore, but I still love them. They remind me that every meal is unique. Even things that look identical are special.”
Chapter Sixteen
Savannah
My left hand is still in his and he’s tracing the concentric circles when I automatically bring my right hand up to cup his jaw.
Despite how close we’ve become this week, I’ve never touched him. Not like this. Sure, the occasional brushing of my knuckles against his in the popcorn bowl. My legs stretched out next to his on the sofa. My feet burrowing under his leg when my toes get cold. But nothing like this. Nothing deliberate. Nothing intentional.
Nothing that speaks to my need to touch this particular man, in this moment. This man who is like no other man I’ve ever known. In the moment that I could share with no other person.
Because Ian is so uniquely himself. And because no other person has ever asked these kinds of thoughtful, probing questions or listened to my answers in quite the same way.
I want to tell him all of that, and I’m also afraid to, because I don’t want to reveal how much he means to me. How far in I am already. If my feelings scare me this much, I can only assume they’ll terrify him.
So I don’t voice any of that out loud. Instead, I get lost in the sensation of his cheek under my palm. Because his hair is dark, he seems to have a perpetual scruff on his jaw. I’ve seen him almost clean shaven, only to have it popped back up within a few hours. On him, the scruff doesn’t seem like an artful pretense. Its ever-changing length speaks more to negligence than intention.
