Page 41 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

‘You have my full permission to take a photo and send it over to them as proof of your sibling superiority.’

‘I’ll pop it in the group chat,’ promised Nick.

‘You have a family group chat?’ Zoey was astonished. How could anyone be so … well adjusted? Was this normal? Should she be concerned?

Nick regarded her as he stripped some basil. ‘You’re looking at me like I might turn out to be a serial killer.’

Zoey groaned. ‘You’re polite, and clearly you keep to yourself. What other conclusions am I meant to draw?’

‘That I’m the kind of nice boy you’d want to bring home to … whoever your favourite people are. Ainsley and Co. And also that I’m a great cook.’

Nick plated up two portions of the mushroom pasta on retro mustard-yellow plates that he confessed were a Goodwill find, then fiddled about with some shaved cheese and a garnish of parsley.

‘The group chat is going to love this,’ said Zoey. ‘You could step in as sous chef at Departure.’

Nick puffed out his chest.

‘Can I take a photo?’ he asked. ‘With you as well?’

Zoey wasn’t ordinarily the selfie-taking type, but she felt … disarmed. Like she didn’t have to be prickly and protective. Because there was something here, in this whole situation, that felt safe. Accepting.

‘Should we slurp the pasta?’ said Zoey mischievously.

‘Yes, absolutely. On the count of three.’ Nick grabbed his fork and started twirling his pasta. ‘One, two, three …’ he counted around a mouthful of pasta, then yelled, ‘Parmesan!’

‘Parmesan!’ shouted Zoey in unison as the camera shutter clicked.

Having sent off the text, Nick hefted his plate. ‘Dining table or porch?’

‘Let’s do porch,’ said Zoey decisively. ‘I want to feel this whole country-living thing. Plus, I heard an owl before, and I want to see if I can hear it again.’

‘That’s Minerva. She lives in the barn. Every now and then she’ll end up outside the house, right in the middle of the day. Confusing, but if it means she handles the mole situation, I’m all for it.’

They headed outside to the wrought-iron bistro set on the porch. Nick had turned on a set of fairy lights: they added a soft illumination to the cosy outdoor space – and some striking shadows to his already gorgeous features.

‘I subscribe to the year-round-fairy-lights philosophy,’ he said with a shrug, indicating for Zoey to sit. ‘And we don’t get fireflies here – which my aunt in North Carolina is always reminding me about – so we might as well make our own.’

The two of them dug in to the pasta, which was rich with a mix of mushrooms: oyster, shiitake, chanterelles, each of them with a distinct taste and texture that shone through the creamy sauce.

‘This is incredible,’ said Zoey, who was almost certainly wearing half of her sauce on her face.

‘It’s easy to whip up something half decent when you have your very own greenhouse and a personal veggie patch.’ Nick smiled over at her. No, not smiled. Veritably beamed. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

They chitchatted about the farm and Nick’s commute, and about the likelihood of Romero showing up in time to be declared the winner of his mayoral campaign. (According to Ainsley he was polling extremely well. Apparently his Cat Nip message was resonating.)

When they’d finished, Nick shot her an appraising eye. ‘How are we feeling about some local, possibly explosive honey on bread for dessert? I know it’s not the most gourmet, but it is really good.’

Zoey murmured her assent, and Nick returned a few minutes later with a plate piled high with freshly sliced bread and a pot of honey with a chunk of honeycomb in it.

He passed her a knife, and she dug in to the honey with such vim that she managed to get it over her shirt, her wrist, the table, and the plate. And finally the bread, so all was not lost.

‘You’re meant to eat it, not wear it,’ teased Nick.

‘Well, that depends on what you’re into,’ she said, archly.

Did Nick flush this time?

‘Fair. All right, moment of truth,’ he said, as Zoey took a bite.