“Sourdough?” Ingrid turned to face me, her spatula frozen in hand. “She bakes? How old is her starter?”
“I don’t know what that means, but she’s an even better chef than ours back home.”
“She’s better than Berta?” It was then that Ingrid gnawed on her lip and exited the kitchen. When she returned, she begged me to cancel, just like she is now.
“I’m going to embarrass myself,” Ingrid mutters from behind her hands, which are currently covering her face. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m in over my head.”
“Trust me, she’s nothing like the people back home. She’s kind and gracious. You have nothing to worry about.” In fact, if Romilly is the person I think she is, she’ll be just as flattering about Ingrid's cooking whether she pulls off the meal or burns it to a crisp.
“Yeah, right. Just tell her I’m sick or something.”
I scrub a hand over my face. I can't send Romilly away. Not after the effort it took to get her here in the first place. No way.
And then she texts me.
Romilly
I’m outside! Coming to the door.
“Sorry, sis. She's already here," I tell Ingrid. "Please don't ruin this for me."
“Good heavens.” She smiles a pinched, saccharine smirk. "I make no promises. And if she so much as alludes to this meal being amateur, I'll show her the door before she has a chance to unfold her napkin."
I want to strangle her. Never mind her opinions of the snooty, judgmental crowd our parents surrounded us with. Thisis Romilly she's talking about. My sister has no idea how she behaves. "You're going to eat your words," I mutter as I walk past her to the door where she’s waiting. "The woman is practically Grace Kelly reincarnated."
Ingrid lifts her orange juice glass, toasting, and then downs the contents. I'm grateful when she paces to the kitchen to finish up the food, because I don't want her to witness how anxious I’m about to get. Anxious, because Romilly is on the other side of the door.
I open it in a single, wide movement. "You're here," I say, breathless. “Hi.”
A trace of pink creeps onto her cheeks. "I'm here. Hi.”
We stand there for a moment, staring at one another. There’s a thick tension between us, that same tension from the car last night. My eyes trail along her body, and I tense up. She's wearing a white, long-sleeved romper that’s tight on the legs but flares out at the bottom near her ankles. When she removes her leather jacket, my gaze lingers on her slightly exposed shoulders, but only for a second. Only long enough to make my mouth run dry.
Romilly smiles and gives a little wave. She's probably worried for my sanity. I'm just standing in the doorway like a moron, thinking only of the way her outfit hugs her body. Of how the white material makes her deep skin glow. Of how she looks like an angel.
"You must be Romilly," Ingrid says from behind me. "Welcome to brunch."
Romilly grins and sashays past me like I don't exist, into the foyer where Ingrid is waiting. She hands my sister a potted plant. When on earth did she get a potted plant? Has she been holding it all along?
"It's so nice to meet you," she says. "Ingrid, right?"
She nods. "I'm Bash's sister, unfortunately.”
Romilly laughs. The delicate sound travels all the way to my toes.
Ingrid shows Romilly to the dining area, where she has the food displayed on white platters. The good napkins are out, freshly pressed and run through the antique brass holders my mum only saves for special occasions.
And whether or not either of them realizes it, this is definitely a special occasion. Because I have never, not once, brought a woman home. Not a girlfriend, not a date, not a female friend. Not once.
But there's no reason to tell Romilly that. It would completely freak her out or force her to remind me we work together. She'd insist that she'd mistakenly given me the wrong idea. Probably send me a handwritten apology note through the post, or something equally ridiculous.
"Have a seat, everyone,” Ingrid says. "The food is hot. I won't have us eat it any other way."
"You made this?" Romilly's eyes widen in wonder. "This meal looks like it belongs in a magazine." There’s no denying the sincerity in her tone.
The compliment strikes my sister, quite visibly, right in the heart. “Thank you.”
I settle into a seat across from Romilly, and Ingrid sits beside me. Romilly is facing the window framing the lake, and when she sees it, she says, “Wow. What I wouldn’t give for a view like that at my place.”
