The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

high-end range with gas burners. I didn't need to broil the bread but it wasn't a matter of need nearly as much as want. I wanted that bread broiled even if I knew the odds of charring it and setting off the smoke detectors were high. I was willing to deal with some blackened crusts. I didn't mind that, even if I rarely used the broiler back home in D.C. because it was too much trouble to babysit the bread. Who had the time to supervise bread? Not me. Definitely not me.

But now I could sit by the stove, watching and waiting. I could risk the crusts, the smoke alarms. I could do this. I could do things I'd assumed were off-limits to me. It would be amazing, it would be perfect. The best toast I'd ever made.

I dropped two thick slices of sourdough into the toaster instead.

I didn't know how Linden's oven worked. How hot it got, how fast it cooked. And I didn't want to ruin everything while he watched. I could scrape a little extra color from the toast but I couldn't serve him charcoal and pretend everything was cool. I knew what to expect from the toaster and I knew it wouldn't give Linden another reason to doubt my skills.

I'd use the broiler another time. It wasn't going anywhere. I'd get to it.

Once I had the toast prepared, I swung a glance to Linden. He was focused on the same paper, leading me to believe it was an exceptionally difficult topic or he didn't trust me with his appliances. Possibly both.

"Do you have any big knives? Something long and sharp I can cut these—"

He pushed away from the table. "I'm not giving you a long, sharp knife, Jasper. I'll do a lot of things for you but that's not one of them. Sorry but no."

I had a huge argument ready to go. Massive. There was a slide deck hot in my head. I had so much to say about this but then it just—poof—evaporated. There was a spot behind the argument, beyond the self-preservation, where I wanted someone to insist.

It was a terrifying spot to revisit because my ex-husband had insisted we were perfect for each other, my mother had insisted she was doing her best, my father insisted he loved me more than anything in the world. Even if they all believed what they'd said, they still let me down. They were still wrong. Why was I to believe Linden's insistence would turn out any differently?

"Okay. What are we cutting?" He dropped his hands to my waist and leaned in to inspect my creations. "This looks surprisingly edible."

I wiggled my shoulders. "Fancy toast is my jam."

He laughed into my hair. "That's adorable."

"Now, if you'd point me in the direction of a knife…"

Yanking open a drawer to the left, he asked, "Tell me how you want it cut."

Admittedly, the knife he retrieved could double as a samurai sword and it was possible I would've taken my finger off with that thing. "Triangles. Please."

He cut the toast and shifted beside me to rinse the knife when he was finished. "All right, then. Tell me what we have here."

My gaze fixed on the plates because I didn't trust myself to look up at Linden right now without asking whether it was possible for him to insist without breaking my heart, I said, "This is almond butter, banana, honey, and chopped walnuts. That one is avocado, soft boiled egg, and some of the hot honey sauce I found in your spice cabinet when I was looking for crushed red pepper flakes. It's fine if you hate it. I'll just—"

"That sounds amazing." He took a bite of the almond butter and banana. "Shit, that's good."

"I usually sauté the bananas to give them some caramelization but I didn't want to use every single one of your pots and pans."

"No, babe, this is perfect." He pushed the almond butter and banana plate toward me, saying, "Take the other half before I inhale it."

"I can make more."

His fingers tucked inside the waistband of my leggings, he steered me toward the table. "What you can do is sit your ass down and eat." He set the plate in front of me, asking, "Coffee?"

"Oh. Yes. That would be great. Do you have any—" A carton of milk appeared in front of me, followed by a mug. "Thank you."

Linden pushed his papers aside and settled back into his seat, the avo-and-egg plate positioned between us. "I need you to explain one thing." He filled my mug about three quarters of the way with cold brew and topped it off with milk, just the way I liked. Which was nuts because how did he know my ratios? How? Why? "All those cupcakes and banana breads—you were fucking with me. Right? Because this is awesome and that was as close as you can legally come to poison."

"I was not fucking with you. Like I said, toast is my jam."

He devoured half of the avo-and-egg, then pushed that plate toward me too. "There's more I could say about this but let me simply ask, one more time, that you never bake again. Definitely not in that crockpot and not when you could make this instead."

"I think your real argument is with the crockpot."

"I think I like the way you're smiling this morning so I'm not going to say anything that might change that, even if the crockpot is one part of a larger problem."

I grinned down at my toast. I didn't feel different today but maybe that didn't matter because I was different. "The crockpot is not the problem. I've had it since college and it works like a charm."

Linden shook his head. "Not taking your bait, lady." Then, "What are you doing today?"

I drew my shoulders up as I chewed. "I need to get back to work on that porch. And by get back to work, I mean figure out what I'm doing."

He dusted the crumbs from his