A twinge of homesickness pinched him. “I miss you guys too. What’s new over there?”
While he set groceries into the cart, his mom gave him the rundown, though he’d picked up some of the gossip from texts or emails already: his oldest sister’s wedding plans, his older brother’s new job, his second-youngest sister’s awesome SAT scores, and his freshman sister’s scandalous flirtation with a senior guy. He could move back to Moses Lake and settle right back into the midst of that happy chaos anytime. They’d welcome him, and within fifteen minutes everyone would forget he’d ever been gone. He was lucky to have such a comfortable home. Maybe it was insane to be out here looking to live somewhere else.
But…no way was he jumping ship now. Not until he figured out what was up with Skye. Helped her, if that’s what she wanted. Generally just hung out with her to soak up her hotness.
He was a little too hooked at the moment to leave Bellwater.
“Well,” his mom said as he neared the checkout line, “hang in there on the job front, kiddo. And I’m so glad you’ve got these two ladies giving you a chance in the meantime. Sounds like they’re being good to you.”
“Yeah. They’ve been nice.” If by nice you meant grabbing you in the woods and planting the best kiss ever on you. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Bye, Mom.”
Grady arrived at the Darwens’ house at five minutes before ten. Two canvas bags of groceries weighed down his shoulders. He knocked, his pulse thrumming in his throat.
Livy opened the door and beamed. “Hey. Right on time.” She took one of the grocery bags from him. “Listen, I really appreciate you trying this out. I know it’s kind of bizarre.”
“No no, it’s fine. Should be fun.”
“Skye appreciates it too, no matter how it seems. Believe me.”
He nodded. “Well. I brought a couple options for lunch recipes. I’ll let her choose what sounds good.”
Livy beckoned him in with a tilt of her head. “Let’s get these into the kitchen.”
Skye wasn’t there. Grady pressed his lips together to keep from asking where she was. He started fitting cheeses, eggs, and vegetables into the fridge.
Livy cleared counter space by putting away mugs and cereal boxes. “Use anything you want—pots, pans, spices, ingredients.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Skye’s in the shower. She’ll be out soon.”
He swallowed, trying to get the picture of her naked and dripping wet out of his head. He wadded up one of the empty canvas bags and stuffed it inside the other. “Okay,” he repeated.
“I’ve got to get to work now,” Livy said, “so I’m off. I’ll go tell her goodbye.”
Grady stood in front of the small kitchen table and smoothed out his two recipe pages with nervously chilled hands. He heard Livy walk down the hallway, knock on a door, and call through, “Hey, Skye, Grady’s here, and I’m taking off. I’ll text you later, okay?”
He thought he heard a soft “Okay” in response.
Livy appeared again, zipping up her coat, keys jangling. She took a backpack from a hook in the entry, and glanced into the kitchen at Grady. “Call me if you have any questions. Or if you can’t find the garlic or whatever.”
They had acquired each other’s numbers last night through Kit. He smiled. “I will.”
“See you.” She hoisted the pack onto her shoulder. “Looking forward to the food!”
“Thanks. Bye.”
The front door shut. In a minute she started up her car and drove away. Grady slid the papers around, paced across the kitchen to inspect the cookware, and paced back. He took out the set of knives he’d gotten from his parents for Christmas—you always brought your own if you were serious about cooking—and arranged them on the table beside the recipes. From down the hall came the soft thumps of Skye moving around, muffled by the white noise of the bathroom fan.
The fan shut off. The door down the hall squeaked open. He swallowed.
She came into the kitchen, arms folded, dressed in an olive-green hoodie, artfully ripped jeans, and thick gray socks. Her hair was damp and wavy and hanging loose down her back.
“Morning,” Grady said.
She wandered up beside him and looked down at the recipes his fingertips lay upon. The smell of shampooed hair drifted into his nose. Her arm leaned against his. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
He cleared his throat. “So, yeah. These are your two choices for lunch. Frittata or breakfast burrito—which, despite its name, is awesome as lunch. Or dinner for that matter. Uh, what do you think? Would one of these work?”
Skye examined both recipes, then tapped the breakfast burrito page with her forefinger.
“Good choice. Okay. I’ll get that one started. It involves chopping up a lot of vegetables.” He paused and looked around the kitchen.
Skye walked to the counter, reached behind the toaster, and slid out a plastic cutting board. She brought it to him.
“Ah. Thank you. Perfect.” He set it on the table beside the knives, then turned to fetch the bell peppers, onions, chilies, and tomatoes. While he washed them at the sink, Skye held up a bag of coffee beans, and lifted her eyebrows at him in question.
“Making coffee?” he said. “Sure, sounds great. Thanks.”
She opened a drawer and held up a small silver tool with a disk-shaped whisk at the end, and again gave him the questioning eyebrows.
Grady squinted. “Oh, no way, is that a milk frother?”
She nodded.
“You can make a latte or cappuccino or something?”
She nodded.
“Then yeah, for sure, I’ll take a latte. Awesome, thanks.”
They worked in almost-companionable silence for a few minutes, Grady dicing vegetables and Skye grinding coffee beans and heating milk.
She brought mugs to the table a few minutes later, partially filled with strong black coffee. He paused his chopping to watch as she tipped the frothed milk in from the little saucepan. A few tilts and swirls of the mug, and the white froth formed a feathery shape like a fern against the creamy brown.
“Ah, look at you,” he said in admiration. “Are you a barista?”
She nodded, meeting his gaze, and though she still didn’t smile, he caught a hint of pride in her posture.
“See, I still can’t do that,” he said. “The foam, the designs. That takes artistry.”
She set the saucepan in the sink, then padded over to the wall beside the table, and touched a framed painting hanging there. She looked straight at him, her fingers lingering on the bottom corner of the painting.
The painting showed a marina, with sailboat masts and board-walks and reflective rippling water, all in crazy bright colors, its paint splashed about in a way that made it look perpetually wet. He leaned closer to read the words inked in the corner in black pen: Winter is bright in Bellwater, followed by a half-illegible signature that could have been Skye Darwen.