The stove timer started to beep, and Nancy turned the power off under the pasta. She carried the stockpot to the sink and dumped all the water into a colander. “Well, I was taking a while to get to the point, because I’m a little nervous asking you.” She glanced toward him, then back at the sink. She gave the colander a shake. “They’re so good for each other, those two. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”
He didn’t respond, but she kept going anyway.
“So I was thinking, since you’re friends with both of them, maybe you can stick around a few days? You said your job is mobile, and I just thought … when Dan comes for the wedding, they’ll need someone impartial who can help them see what they’re throwing away. And May seems to trust you, or she wouldn’t have hidden out at your place. I know Allie and Matt want to help, but with the wedding coming up, I’d hate for them to be focusing on anything but their big day, and I’m not sure May will listen to me. She seems to like you.”
Ben put the peeler down on the cutting board and, for lack of a better response, stuck the carrot pencil in his mouth. He crunched it between his molars. It tasted like soap. All mass-produced grocery store carrots these days seemed to taste like soap. He couldn’t imagine why anyone stood for it.
He reached for the glass of water Nancy had given him and swallowed half of it, forcing the carrot down his throat.
“Sure.” His voice seemed to belong to someone else. Someone stupid enough to agree to this. Someone too flayed to figure out what to say or how to say no.
What had happened to him? He’d started this thing on a whim, trying to be nice for a day, and then he’d kind of fallen into it. Fallen into May, because it was easy to do that. She was easy to be with. Easy to like. Easy to get lost in.
But this wasn’t easy. This was a rock and a hard place and him getting pressed hard between them, and it was his own fucking fault.
There was simply no way he could go now. Not if it meant leaving her here to deal with this—her sister’s wedding, her mother’s expectations, Dan—when she seemed so ill-equipped to handle it.
Christ. Evidently you couldn’t just play at being a white knight. Once you put on the armor, you had to carry the fucking lance.
“Great!” Nancy said. “We’ll tell her that I insisted you stay, okay? That way, you can be here the next couple days, and we’ll work on her together. When Dan gets here on Saturday for the ceremony, we’ll have her all primed to fix things.”
Ben managed a wan smile and asked, “What did you want me to do next?”
“Well, you’ve got enough carrots now, I think. Want to put together the macaroni salad?”
He glanced at the ingredients arrayed over the countertop and realized what she had in mind. Overcooked macaroni, mayonnaise, a bit of crunch from celery and carrot, a dash of vinegar and sugar.
Ben could pretend to be a glorified personal secretary. He could keep his mouth shut while Nancy sang the praises of Thor as a life mate for her daughter. He could even stand there and listen while she told him about May in words that didn’t make any sense.
He could not make terrible macaroni salad.
“I used to work at a restaurant that made great macaroni salad. Do you mind if I do my own thing?”
She smiled at him. Her newest ally. “What did you have in mind?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“I’m willing to consider pickles, but you don’t put lemon juice in macaroni salad.”
Nancy’s voice carried through the open kitchen archway into the living room, where May and Allie were sitting on the floor, surrounded by five hundred fake Gerbera daisies in various hues of pink, orange, and yellow. They were arranging them into metal buckets for centerpieces while the miniature dachshund nosed through the piles of supplies and generally made a nuisance of himself.
“It’ll make it zingy,” Ben said. May could hear the low thump of a bowl hitting the countertop. The fridge door opened.
“It’s already going to be zingy from the vinegar.”
“Vinegar is too harsh. Lemon juice is a better zing. Plus, with the pickles, you get this great harmony of zingy lemon and crunchy pickle and—look, you have to trust me on this.”
“May?” her mom called, her voice full of exasperated amusement. “He’s trying to tell me how to make macaroni salad.”
“Let him make it his way, Mom,” May shouted back. “He knows more about food than all of us put together.”
“I will not.” She sounded huffy now. “I thought you loved my macaroni salad.”
May’s father pushed his way through the front door with an arm full of plastic-wrapped pink and orange packages. Back with the linens.
“Hey, Scooter,” he said mildly.
“Hi, Dad.”