Page 100 of Tangled with the Tight End

“I had planned on it. Maybe I shouldn’t presume. You might have other dinner companions …”

Maybe on my off days a string of women who look like the cast of the Barbie movie parade through Declan’s home. I don’t think that’s true, but I know it could be.

“I like eating dinner with you,” he says.

Plain and simple.

And my heart—the runaway train—blows an emergency whistle while sparks fly. I’m on board regardless of how this ride ends.

“I like eating dinner with you, too,” I say softly.

Declan pulls out his phone. He pulls up a meal delivery app and then he laughs. “They don’t do this in Waterford.”

“Nope. I’m pretty sure you need Winona for Hire if you want a meal delivered. Unless it’s pizza. They deliver.”

“I do need Winona for Hire,” he says, glancing over at me.

“Well, lucky for you, you have me tonight. Call it in. I’ll go get it.”

“We’ll go get it. You don’t need to wait on me hand and foot.”

He calls in our order.

After, we drive into town—together. Back at his place, I grab plates in the kitchen, dishing up our food while Declan rests on the couch per my orders.

His voice comes through the intercom. “I hate that you’re the one doing everything.”

I smile, walk over to the wall and press the button. When I say, “It’s in my job description,” my voice echoes through the house.

“You’re not on the clock,” he reminds me.

The words resound through the hallway and I pause as the truth settles beneath my skin.

I’m not on the clock.

But we both want me here. Whether it’s loneliness or familiarity or force of habit, Declan wants me to eat dinner with him. A small, timid voice says it’s so much more than all of that. I lick a dollop of sauce off my fingertip, wash my hands and carry our two plates into the living room.

“When I can walk again—without crutches,” Declan stares across the front room at me. “I’m making you dinner. And you’re going to sit still while I wait on you.”

I stop in my tracks. My breath stills. I gather myself and carry his plate to the coffee table next to him. “Promises, promises, football player.”

“If I make a promise, I keep it.”

“No one’s ever made me dinner—unless you count Cass or my friends.”

What I’m saying is, a man has never cooked for me.

“Well, I’m going to. I can cook. It’s just easier and more convenient to have Claudette.”

“You’re not kidding. Everyone needs a Claudette. Only certain people get her. But we all need her. I hope I get to meet her sometime.”

“You will,” Declan says.

Then he picks up his sandwich and it drips on the plate—mayo, coleslaw, and the crispy chicken—arguably one of the messiest meals he could have chosen. Declan takes a big bite and moans.

“Man that hits,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Especially after my workout today.”

“Hard workout?” I ask, taking a bite of my own sandwich.