“What’s that, babe?” Damien asked.
The phone slipped, and she inched it back up, crooking her neck to hold it in place. A stitch zinged up her shoulder. “Sorry, but I really need to make this quick. I was saying, dinner and a movie isn’t going to happen with me cooking for a restaurant full of people. ”
“Can’t you just get it started, and Laura can dish it out?”
“No, I can’t. ” She frowned. This was the chance she’d been waiting years for, and he wanted her to let Laura take over? “It’s not that simple, Damien. ” There was a lot these days that wasn’t that simple.
She worried she’d been thinking about that sheriff one too many times a day. It was just that, when she was with Billy, she felt like she could let it all hang loose. That she could be herself, and best of all, he understood.
She held her breath, making an exaggerated grimace she knew nobody could see. She should
really break it off with Damien, and tonight. “Why don’t you come here instead? You can have some of my puttanesca. ” Her cheek pressed redial, and there was a rapid beeping as the phone redialed Damien’s number.
“What?”
“Sorry, sorry. This is driving me nuts. ”
Billy came up behind her and silently showed her the olives. He was trying to help. He knew how this was her big moment. He got it. He got her.
He’d opened several cans and silently gestured, asking if she wanted him to drain them. He’d turned up the cuffs of his red flannel shirt, exposing solid forearms. His muscle flexed beneath skin as he moved. He was a man.
She had to stop thinking about him. Had to stop her mind from wondering what else about her he’d understand. How those muscles would feel beneath her hands. How he might touch her. Hold her.
She came to, and glanced up to find Billy watching her. He lifted one of the cans, repeating his silent question. She gave him a grateful nod, feeling the heat flood her cheeks. Putting a hand over the mouthpiece, she mouthed, “Save some of the juice. ”
“I’m losing you, Sorrow. What was that?”
That was it. This whole situation was just too unfair to Damien. She’d break it off with him tonight. “Come over, you can try my puttanesca. It’s a tangy pasta. ” She’d talk to him over dinner.
“You know I don’t eat pasta. ”
“Of course you don’t. ” She couldn’t deal with this right now. She had a job to do. She began to chop in earnest—her knife slamming against the cutting board like it might save her life. “I really should go. Ow”—she’d sliced her thumb and sucked it into her mouth—“Damn. ” Sloppy chopping wouldn’t do her a bit of good—she needed to calm down. She was the one who’d wanted to do this.
Damien sounded genuinely concerned. “You all right, babe?”
“Yeah, I just cut myself. ”
The sheriff put down the can opener and took her shoulders in his hands. Her breath caught. His touch managed to be both gentle and sure. He led her to the sink, holding the phone so she could wash her cut.
“Is it bad?” asked Damien. “Can’t your sister help?”
“It’s no biggie. ” She rummaged in the junk drawer for the little zippered kit she kept there. Billy took it from her, and she gave him a weak smile as he applied a glop of antiseptic cream and a couple of Band-Aids. His hands were gentle, and deft, too.
She cleared her throat, back at the cutting board. “So, you coming over for dinner then?”
“You know, it sounds like it’s crazy for you over there. And honestly, it’s crazy for me here. I’m buried. Can we take a rain check? I think I’ll just work late. Let you have your moment in the sun. Save me some leftovers, though, okay?”
She hung up with Damien, feeling a weird mix of disappointed, unsurprised, and relieved. Now that she had it in her head that they needed to talk, she needed to just do it and get it over with. Otherwise, it felt like an ax poised to fall.
That was the last real conversation she had all night, as she was quickly swept up in kitchen insanity. Somehow word had spread through Sierra Falls that Sorrow was cooking, and more folks than usual came by for dinner.
She’d salvaged beets, goat cheese, and some candied walnuts from her own pantry to pull together a beet salad. Some random veggies, a couple of cans of white beans, and chicken stock had made up a nice soup. And for a finishing touch, Billy had cored over a dozen apples, and she’d made baked apple for dessert. That she’d had to serve all of it in tiny portions had impressed the customers all the more; they thought it was some sort of fancy citified preparation.
Her mom carried in the last of the plates. “Have you had a chance to eat anything?”
Sorrow ignored the question, her eyes only on the teetering stack of white dishes. “I don’t have to do the dishes, too, do I?”
Billy walked through the swinging door, taking the stack from her mother’s hands and putting them in the giant stainless steel sink. “Don’t think you can sneak away from me, Edith. I got these. ”