“Naturally.” I laugh out loud. “Oh to be a cat.”
“Sure as hell is an easy life.” Turning, Jace smiles at me, a genuine, beautiful smile. It kind of reminds me of Eric’s smile in a way. Charming, very charming. A smile I haven’t seen in the media, a smile that seems reserved for intimate moments. “I’m glad I ran into you, Hollyn. It was nice talking to you outside of the program’s dictated discussion.”
“I agree. You’re pretty cool, Jace Barnes.”
“Pretty cool?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Only pretty cool?”
“Hey, I have to give you something to strive for. It’s all about progression, Jace.”
“True.” He chuckles. “Hey, look at us proving our existence today and growing our support system. Marleen would be so proud.”
“If she was here, she would be gushing.”
If I have to admit it, I’m gushing a little inside as well because for the first time since Eric passed, I feel a little at ease. It’s like the band around my chest relaxed somewhat. Odd. Jace gets me. He feels my emotional distress. He knows what it’s like to lose something so incredibly precious to you and for that, I know our friendship will always be unique.
CARTER
What the hell am I doing here?
Being a total dumbass, that’s what.
Meatloaf? I’m here to learn how to make meatloaf? Fuck, I could make meatloaf in my sleep, and yet I accepted Daisy’s invitation to teach me one of the things she knows best.
This was an incredibly stupid idea because honestly, what do I really have in common with Daisy? I barely know her, so what the hell are we going to talk about? And she’s going to find out I’m a chef at some point, that will just humiliate her, and I don’t want that.
But fuck, texting her the other day, it felt almost normal. Guiding her felt normal and I have no idea why. It wasn’t until Fitzy started whining and tossing popcorn at me that I slowed down on the texts even though I wanted to continue to talk to her. The only other person I’ve ever really wanted to text was Sasha.
There is something about Daisy that draws me to her. Is it her innocence? She’s so pure, so untouched, not even being close to jaded like me. Does that make me a bigger dick than I am, wanting to cling to her innocence with the possible chance of scuffing her pristine personality?
I sure as hell hope not.
Tucking my helmet under my arm, I take off my gloves and walk up to the townhouse Daisy gave me directions to. Yes, actual directions, not an address. She’s so old school. Shit, I like that about her.
The weather is ridiculously cold still, so I blow into my fist a few times and then knock on her door. It takes a few moments to answer but when she does, an excited Daisy in a pair of khaki slacks, a cream turtleneck, and a maroon fleece zip-up vest greets me. What is with this girl and her vests? Her grandma clothes do nothing for the figure I know she’s hiding.
“Carter, you made it. Come in, you must be cold.”
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, completely regretting this get-together.
“Here, let me take your helmet, we can set it in the entryway.” Fumbling, she grabs my helmet and gloves, and while I’m trying to take off my leather jacket, she attempts to assist me but given I’m a good half foot taller than her, she ends up just pulling on one of my sleeves, making it more difficult to take off.
Once I untangle myself, I take my boots off as well, not to track any dirt in the house. Daisy starts to assist me, but I put up my hand to stop her. “I’ve got my shoes.”
Stepping back, she folds her hands in front of her and nods. “Sorry,” a light giggle pops out of her heart-shaped mouth, “I guess I’m a little eager to have company. I was doing a lot of reading on the Internet about being a good hostess and it told me to make sure I take your jacket and whatnot.”
Reading on how to be a good hostess? Why am I not surprised?
“Well, I’m not sure they meant for you to take your guest’s shoes off,” I say with a little chuckle.
“Oh.” The expression on her face falls, her eyes casting down in embarrassment.
Standing tall, I come up to her and with my index finger, lift her chin. As I notice her wide eyes, her breath picking up, I say, “It was a nice gesture though.” Looking around, I end the intimate distance. “Where’s the kitchen?”
“Uh, over here.”
She motions us down a short hallway into an open-concept space. To the left is a small living space with a beige sectional couch, purple frilly pillows, and a giant flat-screen TV on a dainty white cabinet with an Xbox tucked to the side. Man and woman cohabiting, blatantly obvious. To the right is a small dining area with a four-person dining set, matching buffet table and . . . a kegarater. I chuckle to myself, as this is most definitely man and woman merging their lives together. Anchoring the large space is the modern kitchen with dark cabinets, marble counters, and a . . . oh hell, an electric stove top. The devil’s cookware.
“Nice place,” I state, hands in pockets, not knowing what else to say.
“I would say thank you but it’s not my house, it’s my sister’s. She’d done a great job decorating.”
Taking in the décor, I ask, “Is she a wine drinker? Because it sure as hell looks like it.” Everywhere I look there is either a picture of wine, wine bottles, or wine corks shoved in decorative vases.
“She loves wine. She always tries to get me to drink a glass with her, but I’ve never had alcohol so it’s kind of scary to me.”
My brow furrows together. Never had alcohol? Oh hell, she is innocent. “You’ve never had a drink? You’re twenty-one, right?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Just never thought about it before. Do you drink?”
A sarcastic laugh pops out of me. “Yeah. I’ve had a beer or two.”
“Beer seems like it tastes gross. Matt drinks beer and I’ve smelled it a couple of times, it really smells like butt.”
Like butt. I laugh out loud. Of course she wouldn’t say it smells like ass.
“I can assure you, beer doesn’t taste like . . . butt. It’s an acquired taste though.” Taking in the kitchen, I see she has everything set up, things already measured out, and the double oven preheated. Shit, I need to confess to her or else this is going to be more awkward than is has to be.
“Are you ready to get started? I have aprons for us.”
Holding up two frilly white aprons, she smiles at me. Not in a smart-ass way, but in a way that says she’s genuinely serious about wearing the 1950s aprons in her hands, like we are Betty Croker and Julia Child.
Christ.
Grabbing the back of my neck, I say, “Uh, yeah. I kind of have something to tell you.”
“Oh?” She sets my apron on the counter and starts tying hers around her waist. When she cinches it, I catch a glimpse at just how small her waist is. I knew she was petite under those drab clothes.