“More than enough. We’ll have Mama help us cook something. Or do you want me to disappear Monday?”
“No.” That came immediate and decisive. “Please, don’t disappear. I wouldn’t have invited him unless you’d be here.”
“Should I ask Sam?”
“Yes, that evens it out or something. Nothing fancy, Nina. A nice, easy dinner. Let’s stay casual.”
“Casual sexy. We’ve got this, Morgan.”
“If we don’t, we’ll get something delivered.” She rose. “I have to get ready for bed. You should, too. You start at eight tomorrow.”
“I’m going, I’m going, but I’m going to text Mama first so she can think about what we should make. I’m not going to tell you to have sweet dreams because that’s a given. See you tomorrow. Oh, I can’t wait to meet the guy Morgan Albright asked to dinner!”
* * *
Luke dropped into the bar Tuesday night. He slid right into conversation with her, and with some of the regulars. He honed his dart skills for a while—he wasn’t bad. He had his two beers, some wings.
“Got yourself a boyfriend.” Gracie wiggled her eyebrows.
“No. He’s only in town for a couple months.”
“Didn’t say lifetime lover.” As the lights blinked for last call, Gracie rolled her shoulders. “He sure is smooth. Me, I don’t trust smooth. About fifteen years back I had an almost first husband. He was smooth. So smooth he slid right out of my bed into my cousin Bonnie’s.”
“Good thing he’s not my almost first husband.”
“So you can enjoy the smooth.”
And why not, Morgan thought when he came in on trivia night. The fact that he joined in earned him some points on her personal scorecard.
She had an interesting man obviously attracted to her and, given her schedule, not much one-on-one time. Which seemed okay with both of them.
It didn’t mean she didn’t look forward to Monday night with fear of actually cooking and anxiety, due to second-date syndrome.
She flexed some time, took off an hour early from her day job. Riding her bike home in air that had softened, really, finally softened into April gave her a lift.
In a matter of weeks spring would get serious and start popping out color. She saw some of the neighborhood’s forsythia had already jumped in with their bright butter yellow, and the big willow on the corner of her block had its early green haze.
In her own yard, tulips bloomed lipstick red, and the azaleas that Nina had advised on their first garden center meeting had budded up and would pop their sweet pink in no time.
Maybe it was silly, but having them made her feel like part of the neighborhood.
She parked her bike, smiled at the pansies, and went inside where music pumped.
Obviously, Nina had beaten her home.
She tossed her keys in the bowl on the table by the door, hung up her jacket, tucked her purse inside the closet with it, then walked into the kitchen and chaos.
Nina had her hair back in a tail and wore an apron splattered with God knew. Nina’s mama had given her an apron, and sent one home to Morgan.
Bottles, jars, shakers littered their stingy counter. From where Morgan stood, it looked like some of everything made up the splatters on Nina’s new bib apron.
“I did it!” Nina’s eyes stayed wide and a little bit wild. “I did the marinade for the chops. I did it, Morgan.” She flung open the fridge. “See?”
Gingerly, Morgan leaned in, stared through the plastic wrap on the glass bowl—borrowed from Mama for this express purpose.
“I did it with these hands!”
“And it looks”—she leaned in closer, sniffed—“and smells just like it’s supposed to. Do you need to sit down?”
“Maybe. You have to do the potatoes. Having men for dinner, meat and potatoes. And since April, asparagus. And we have to cook all of that, set the table and make it nice, and make ourselves look good.
“What were we thinking?”
“Too late for that now. The table’s no problem, you’ve got that. But if you have trouble there, I can help. They’re always showing table settings on HGTV. I can do those damn potatoes. If you can do the marinade, I can do the damn potatoes. Let me at ’em.”
She donned an apron. By the time she’d scrubbed the potatoes, cut them into wedges as Nina’s mother’s recipe instructed—then fretted because the wedges weren’t the same size, and what did that mean?—it pleased her to see her apron wasn’t nearly as close to a Jackson Pollock painting as Nina’s.