“You do have very nice clothes,” I say, still standing on the step.
He looks down at what he’s wearing—a black T-shirt and a pair of faded denim cutoffs that come down to his knees.
“Usually,” I amend. “Not that you don’t look nice. You look nice.” I may have forgotten about my nerves, but clearly, they have not forgotten about me.
Will’s cabin is the same as the Roses’, minus the bar cart. Screened back porch, a deck off the front that looks over the lake. A small eating area and kitchen with views of the water. The cast-iron fireplace is ancient but charming and the pine floors are well trodden. The walls used to be wood, too, but Mom had them insulated and drywalled so the cabins could be used year-round.
I follow Will into the kitchen and set the wine on the counter. There are veggies on a cutting board, two hamburger patties that look homemade, and a tinfoil packet of something ready for the barbecue.
“Burgers from scratch?” I ask, impressed.
“It’s a very complex recipe,” he says. “Meat, salt, pepper.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“I think I’ve got it under control. Burgers, salad, potatoes. Sound all right?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, digging a corkscrew out of the utensil drawer. All the cabins are stocked with the basics. “I’ll make myself useful.” I grab glasses from an upper cabinet and pour the wine while Will finishes chopping a cucumber and peppers for the salad. I watch, one hip leaning against the counter. His knife skills are dynamite. Mom would have liked that. He holds up a red onion, and I nod.
“You’re one of those awful people who’s good at everything, aren’t you?” I ask as he slices it into thin, even rings. Half go in the salad, and the rest go on a plate with the other burger toppings.
“Not at all, I’m terrible at . . .” He looks up at the ceiling, lips twisted to the side and one eye closed. He makes a humming sound.
“Humility?” I supply.
“No. I excel at humility.”
I like Will like this. Loose and a little silly. Aside from the day of the almost-kiss, he’s been so zipped up. I wonder what changed.
We move everything outside to the front deck, where the sun is starting its descent over the lake, casting everything in a saffron glow. Dragonflies twirl through the sky, hunting for their evening snack. I set the picnic table, placing cutlery and folded paper towels for napkins on the same side so we can share the view.
“This is nice,” I say, looking at the water as we sit down to eat. Will’s still in his apron, but I don’t comment. I’m hoping he forgets to take it off for the rest of the evening. Watching Will Baxter wear an apron is my new hobby.
“You sound surprised.”
It’s the first time I’ve sat on one of the decks, having a meal like a guest would. There are cedars between the cabins for privacy, but you can glimpse the neighboring cottages with their cheerful green awnings. The murmur of other dinnertimes carries down the shore. It’s comforting.
“I guess I am. I mean, I knew it was gorgeous out here. I spent enough time cleaning cabins when I was a kid to get a good look at them. But I thought it might feel a bit exposed.” I gesture to the row of cottages. “It doesn’t, though. I don’t mind the other people. It’s kind of . . . cozy?”
“I think that’s why a lot of people come to a place like this—you can be surrounded by nature but not isolated. There’s a feeling of community.”
I take a bite of my burger. It’s good, maybe the best I’ve had. I’m not sure how, considering how simple it is: lettuce, tomato, onion, cheddar, meat. Even the salad is extra tasty, the dressing homemade.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask through my last mouthful.
“I’m not sure barbecuing counts as cooking.”
“Don’t be modest—it doesn’t suit you,” I say, wiping my hands. “Besides, I saw you with a knife earlier. You know what you’re doing.”
“I taught myself to cook, but I took a knife skills class a few years ago.”
“I don’t want to stereotype,” I say, taking my gaze away from the sparkling water to look at his profile. “But guys like you don’t usually cook. They go to restaurants and order delivery.”
“Do they?” he says. “Tell me more about guys like me.”
“I only mean you’ve got a big, fancy job. I’m sure there are long hours and client dinners.”
“Fancy?”
“I saw the pictures online. Parties and fundraisers.” Super-attractive ex-girlfriend.
“Ah.” He slides his legs out from under the table and stands in one graceful movement, picking up our plates. I’ve reached the extent of New Will’s low tolerance for personal information.
I rise, but he motions for me to stay seated. “I’ve got it,” he says, stacking the salad bowl on the plates and taking the dirty dishes inside.
When he comes back out, he’s not wearing the apron anymore. He takes a seat across from me and puts his arms on the table, slanting forward. He fixes his eyes on mine.
“I don’t work long hours,” Will says with the same tone he uses for business calls, like this is important information. It’s true that Will is usually done between five and six, but he’s also awake in the middle of the night. I assume he’s working.
“Okay.”
He studies me, serious, almost stern. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “And I cook most nights.”
I feel like I’ve walked into a brick wall I somehow didn’t see coming. I knew he and Jessica broke up, but I didn’t think to ask if he was seeing anyone else.
“But not just for yourself.” I try to keep the disappointment from my voice, but it comes out loud and clear, wearing a highlighter orange construction vest.
“No.”
I’ll be mad at myself later for being so transparent, but I can’t sit across from him for another second. I hoist myself off the bench. But Will’s up fast, his hands reaching for mine. “Stay.”
I look at him across the table and shake my head. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want either of us to hear my voice waver.
“Please,” he says. “You asked for my story the day we went out in the canoe.” The day we almost kissed. The words go unsaid but they’re right there with us, shouting from a billboard. Will’s hands fit around mine, his thumb tracing the pulse in my wrist. “I want to share it with you, if you’ll listen.”
* * *
—
I’m certain what Will is going to tell me will hurt, but I sit back down, blood sloshing around in my eardrums. He keeps his hands over mine, and he doesn’t pull them away when he starts to speak.
“I wasn’t totally honest with you,” he says, and the sloshing turns into a roar. “But it’s not what you think. The night I came over to help with Owen, you asked if I have children. I told you I don’t, and that’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. I live with my sister and her daughter.”
Despite my silence, it must be obvious that I’m not going to bolt, because Will takes his hands away.
“Annabel was young when my niece was born. I learned how to cook around then. They’re the reason why I don’t work late. Family dinners are kind of a thing in our house.” He pauses. “My ex hated when I called it ‘our house.’ I own it, but they’ve always lived there with me.”
“So that’s why you know so much about babies,” I say.
He nods. “And that’s why I have my fancy job.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“You remember I went to school in Vancouver?”
“Emily Carr,” I say, quick as a reflex.
He smiles. “Emily Carr. I came back when Annabel was pregnant. It was complicated with our dad. He was about to get remarried, and Linda, his wife, wanted Annabel and the baby to stay with them, but I couldn’t see that ending well for anyone. Dad and Annabel were barely speaking. They had a huge fight when he found out she was expecting and wanted to keep the baby.”
“And you couldn’t stand being that far away.”
“Right.”