“It is, isn’t it? This is my favorite place in the world.”
The wind breezes across the porch, a warm sputter of air that has just a touch of the autumn weather on its heels. The ferns rock in their hangers while Trigger walks beneath them, settling on a rocking chair in the corner of the porch.
Glancing up at Barrett, his eyes lock onto mine.
“Are you ready to go in?” he asks.
I nod and follow him inside. The soft thud of the door behind me echoing through the room.
I follow Barrett inside and through a cozy kitchen. We end up on the porch again, this time at the back of the house.
“Wow,” I breathe, spying a little lake at the far end of the lawn. “This is incredible. You’d never know this exists.”
“It’s perfect, right? It was my grandfather’s place and now it’s my father’s, technically. I probably use it more than anyone though. I stay out here a lot.”
“I would too. It’s so quiet.”
Barrett motions for me to sit at a table to our left. It’s a little round table with a white linen cloth surrounded by four wooden chairs. Two places have been set, each with a Styrofoam take-out container.
“I hope you don’t mind eating with plastic,” he grimaces. “I didn’t want to be too presumptuous and have Yolanda come out and fix something. So when you accepted my offer, I had to think quick.”
We exchange a smile, and once again, it’s effortless. Everything about him is so smooth, so easy. I keep waiting for the moment I think it’s a fa?ade, but there are no cracks in his veneer.
“So, I’m guessing you don’t cook?” I ask, lifting the lid to my container as he does the same. Crab cakes and slaw line the inside, and the scents that rise make my mouth water.
“Cooking is one of the very few things I don’t do and have no interest in ever doing,” he laughs. “My mom and sisters did the cooking, and we had a housekeeper to pick up the slack. Now I have Yolanda.”
“You have people. That’s what you’re saying.”
He raises his fork with a piece of crab cake to his mouth. “More or less.”
“I’m taking it you don’t do dishes or laundry either,” I laugh.
“You’d be correct.”
“I’m kind of jealous of you and kind of sad for you.”
Laughing, he takes another bite. “I’d be sad about a few things in my life, but not having to do chores wouldn’t be one of them.”
“They’re a pain for sure. But as much as I hate the drudgery of daily life, I wonder how different my life would be if I didn't do them. In a way, all of the chores of life mean you have someone to cook for, someone to love that needs laundry. If there were no bowls in the sink or little dirty shirts to be washed, that would mean I didn’t have Huxley. They’re just little reminders of a full life, you know?” I pause before continuing. “But I’m not saying I’d turn down maid service.”
"Maybe I'll wash a bowl tomorrow after breakfast and see if it changes my perspective," he teases. "It might be a life-altering experience. Who knows?"
"Report back. Make sure you get a soap that will keep your hands nice and soft."
“Noted.”
We sit quietly, eating our food and trading smiles with each other. I don’t feel awkward or compelled to speak at all, which surprises me. It feels absolutely normal to just sit and enjoy each other’s company like this is a routine afternoon.
I’m in my head, thinking about how comfortable I feel, when I look up and into his eyes. He’s leaned back in his chair just watching me.
I flush. “What?”
“Just watching you.”
“Obviously,” I laugh nervously. “Why?”
He lifts his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at shrugging. A smile curls the side of his face. “You’re crazy beautiful.”
“I . . .” I sit my fork down and place my hands on my lap. Forcing a swallow, I will myself to look back up at him. “Thank you.”
“You don’t take compliments well.”
“They’re always just unexpected. That’s all.”
His head cocks to the side, like he’s working a puzzle. “Men don’t tell you that all the time? I find that hard to believe.”
“Sometimes, yes, I suppose,” I say, searching for words. “I never really go out of my way to date or anything. So it’s not like I’m in situations where someone is going to blurt it out there.”
“You don’t date? At all?”
Shaking my head, I smile sadly. “No. Occasionally, I guess. But they’re few and far between. Intentionally,” I toss in at the last minute, not wanting to seem like I’m bad goods.
“Trust me when I say I fully understand why someone wouldn’t want to date at certain periods in their lives. I’m kind of there now.” He touches his finger to his lip, trying to hide a smirk. “I’m supposed to be there now,” he corrects himself.