She sticks her finger under the faucet as directed, the sting of citrus oil in the open wound diminishing as it’s diluted. “I swear I’m not usually this incompetent,” she says.
“Oh, I don’t think you’re incompetent at all.” Charlie turns offthe burner under the pasta. “You’re just pretending so I’ll assume you’re harmless and let my guard down.”
He says it in a tone that could be taken as teasing, but she’s fairly certain it’s another accusation. Which is funny, because Gretchen actually hasn’t been hurting herself on purpose. But is that something she would do? Absolutely. She’s honestly a bit surprised she didn’t think of it earlier. Like she told Everett, he didn’t need to push her into that puddle; she would have fallen into it herself. Then again, how long could she really coast on being pathetic? Probably not that long before Charlie would catch on and harden his heart. Even a softy like him has his limits. She feels dangerously close already without even trying to test them.
But really, this man sees through her so much more easily than anyone else ever has. And why doesn’t that scare her? Okay, it does scare her—rather a lot, actually. But shouldn’t it scare hermore? The urge to flee is still there whenever he gives Gretchen that look that says he knows she’s a liar. Except what if maybe she doesn’t want to run away so much as be chased? And maybe... maybe caught? Now,that’sa frightening thought.
“So how does a young guy such as yourself wind up as a sixtysomething-year-old woman’s bridge partner?” she asks.
The way he finally glances over at her before responding says he wants her to be aware that he knows she’s changing the subject and he’s doing her a favor by allowing it. “Deborah and I only really played together a few times before she lost Rachel and I got too busy with everything here. But when she called the other week and asked if I was interested in partnering again, I was glad for the opportunity to catch up. She actually used to be Grandma Ellen’s bridge partner. They were close—Grandma used to babysit her back when she was a little girl living around here.”
“Wait. Deborah lived around... here?” It’s difficult to reconcile the fancy rich lady who throws thousands of dollars around with someone who would live out in the boonies.
“Yeah. You wouldn’t think it, considering how hoity-toity her life is now, but she was born a country girl. A wealthy country girl, but a country girl nonetheless. Her parents owned a horse boarding facility out this way.” Charlie lowers the heat on the burner and leans back against the counter. “Anyway, when Grandma died, I took her place in the next big bridge tournament. She’d taught me to play when I was a little kid staying here for the summer. She was always teaching me stuff. Probably to keep me out of mischief.” He smiles fondly. “Joining up with Deborah when she needed a new partner felt like a good way to honor Ellen and all of the love she gave me when I needed it. And a good way to support Deborah now.”
“That’s... really sweet.”
Charlie shrugs, then takes hold of both sides of the pasta pot. He dumps its contents into a colander in the sink, steam billowing up and temporarily obscuring his face. “Deborah was a good friend to my grandmother, and she’s become a good friend to me. Up until she dropped you into my lap, at least. She and I are going to have a... serious conversation about that when she gets back from France. Grab plates, would you? Top corner cabinet.”
Gretchen abandons the small hill of zest she’s produced and opens the cabinet, trying not to think too intensely about the mental image of being in Charlie’s lap. The dishes are stacked on the second shelf—a few inches too high for her to reach. Standing on tiptoe gets her closer, but she’s still not tall enough. Plus, the odd angle sends a twinge through her ankle. Then suddenlyCharlie is there, the warmth of his body pressed against the back of hers, one hand on the counter so close to her waist that his thumb almost brushes against her as his other hand reaches above and over her head to grab two plates. He lets go of the counter, and that’s it, he’s about to step away. Except he doesn’t. He lingers there, their bodies still millimeters apart.
“Acorn?” Charlie whispers, and his breath flutters the flyaway hairs near her ear.
“Hmm?” It comes out higher pitched than Gretchen expects.
“Why do you... smell like me?”
“Oh. Ha ha. Um, yeah. I packed my bag counting on those little hotel toiletries, so I’ve had to borrow your shower stuff. Is that a problem?”
“No. Not a problem.” He hands her the plates.
They barely speak as they eat dinner, his demeanor closed off yet again, and as soon as the last dish is washed, Charlie grabs his jacket and leaves.
—
The last two nights when Charlie went out, he didn’t come back to the farm until well after midnight. So when Gretchen literally runs into him in the upstairs hallway after coming out of the bathroom just after nine, she shrieks. Not because she’s startled to run into him so much as startled to actually runintohim instead ofthrough. She’s already gotten too used to hanging out with Everett.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says at the same time she manages an, “Ope!” Apparently, those four months she lived in Wisconsin really made an impression on her.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says to explain her initial overreaction to his presence. “Back so soon, I mean. You stayed out later the last couple nights, so I figured—”
“I just went to pick up a few more things at the store. Here.” Charlie shoves a full plastic bag toward her, then brushes his hair back with his fingers as if he isn’t sure what else to do with his hands now that he isn’t holding something.
“More gifts? You spoil me, sir.” The bag is surprisingly heavy. Gretchen opens it and peeks inside. “Shampoo?”
“And conditioner and stuff. So you won’t keep using mine.”
“Oh. Um, thanks?” She isn’t sure why her using his cheap Suave Men’s 3-in-1 is such an issue that he had to immediately drive an hour round trip to the nearest store to remedy it, but regardless of his motives, this is soconsiderate. Better for her hair too. Except... “Why are there... so many?” Gretchen counts ten travel-sized bottles, plus a bulk pack of disposable razors and two mini cans of shaving gel. How much shower stuff does he think one woman needs for a month? It’s like how NASA tried to send Sally Ride to space for one week with a hundred tampons “just in case.”
Charlie scratches the back of his neck. “I, uh, didn’t know what kind you’d want. They had a lot of options. You know, extra body, color treated, moisturizing. So I figured I would just get a bunch to be safe. And then tell me if there’s one you like best, and I can... we can... I’ll grab a bigger bottle next time I go into town.”
“That’s really... Thank you.” She wonders for a moment why he didn’t simply ask her what shampoo and conditioner she usually uses. Maybe he didn’t know he was going to do this until he was actually doing it? Like getting carried along a wave of kindness he had no choice but to ride if he didn’t want to drownbeneath it. She pictures him standing in front of the bins of tiny toiletries at the store, unsure how he got there but knowing he can’t leave until he’s gathered a truly ridiculous number of them to give her. The mental image forces her to stifle a smile.
“You’re welcome.” He starts to turn toward his room, but stops. “Oh. I should have asked... is your bed comfortable enough? Do you need anything?”
Yeah, she thinks.You in it.“It’s great. Really comfy. Except...”
“Except?”
