“I get someone to check it for me,” Clint said. “By the time tax season comes around, I’ve wrestled the figures into control, and they rarely find mistakes. It’s just a headache to keep up with.”
“Enough of a headache to keep you working through your date,” I pointed out.
I wasn’t ready to let that go.
The next morning, I woke up in Clint’s comfortable guest room. I rolled out of bed and stood at the back window in my pajamas, pulling aside the cheerful white curtain and eying the landscape for a moment before returning to my overnight bag and getting dressed.
I’d forgotten to pack hair ties, so when I emerged from the bedroom, I was in jeans and a patterned t-shirt, with my hair down and falling around my shoulders. I’d kicked off my sandals under the table as we sat up talking, and hadn’t retrieved them before heading to bed.
Clint was entirely forgiven for his lapse. The companionable evening we’d shared over good steak and cups of strong coffee was better than going out to some fancy restaurant and being interrupted by a stranger every few minutes.
We’d talked for three hours and were both yawning by the time we stumbled into bed.
As I walked into the kitchen, I saw that the dishes from last night had been cleared away.
On end of the table where we had been sitting was a vase full of fresh wildflowers, a plate of food and a glass, and a note.
Crossing to them, I picked up the note first.
“Naomi -
Finishing up farm chores. Back by eight. Had breakfast.
Make yourself at home.
- Clint”
I put it down and sat in the end seat. He’d set the table with a pretty turquoise cloth napkin and the plate he’d left for me had a bagel, cream cheese, jam, and honey, along with some diced strawberries and cantaloupe. There was a glass of orange juice, still cool.
It was a beautiful spread.
Lo
oking for a clock, I saw my purse hanging on a hook by the door, next to his winter jacket, and stood back up to go grab my phone.
Apparently, it was 7:46.
I tried not to wonder if he’d be back in the house by eight. He’d clearly not forgotten about me, he’d taken the time to set up breakfast for me before he had started his chores after a late night.
I virtuously did not keep an eye on my phone as I ate, but I couldn't resist peeking at the time when I heard footsteps on the porch outside.
7:55.
I knocked into my orange juice glass as I turned the screen back off before he walked inside.
"Good, you found the food," Clint said, stepping through the door.
"Not a problem," I said. "It was hard to miss, with the flowers and all. Thank you. They're really lovely."
Clint smiled at me and planted a kiss on my hair ad he walked past me into the main part of the kitchen. Looking at something around a cabinet, above his head, he nodded once and came back to perch on the chair next to me.
"You like bagels?" he asked.
"Love them," I said. "Is there a clock back there?" I asked, nodding to the part of the kitchen he'd just headed to.
"Ever since I was a kid," he said. "I knew I was pushing it to make it back when I said I would, wanted to be sure I hadn't broken my word again."
"I do understand," I said. "I don't love it, but I understand. The work never ends and there are some things that just can't wait."