Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

Which is what I hear they offer in Rockery.

I pull a leg up onto the chair and take in the options before me. It’s nice to be able to do this—to make plans for the future. Even though Holden hasn’t actually come through on his end of the deal, he will.

“He will,” I tell myself as if I need to hear the reinforcement.

The timer buzzes on the oven. I get off the stool and check on the meatloaf baking away. It’s browned and perfect and will hopefully get me back in Jobe’s good graces. As I take it out of the oven, scents of tomatoes and spices fill the air . . . right before the sound of Holden’s voice takes over.

“Honey? I’m home,” he says from the doorway.

I glance over my shoulder. His dark-green scrubs skim the edges of his body and make the grassiness of his eyes even deeper. His hair is sticking up as if his hands have been run through it a hundred times. He grips the frame of the door with one hand, the muscles in his arm flexing.

It takes everything I have not to bite my lip.

“Is it weird to call this place home? Even if only symbolically,” I ask.

His hand drops from above his head, and I’m kind of sad to see it go. I turn my attention back to the meatloaf.

“I feel like this is the place my mom was trying to create at home as a kid,” he says, coming up behind me.

The fork in my hand stalls midair. “Really?”

“I mean, I’m not sure she would’ve chosen sunflowers as her kitchen decor, but I think she was going for this kind of lived-in feel.”

I pick up a knife and poke at the sliced onions on top of the hamburger. “You know, using ‘lived in’ to describe a place probably won’t win you any favors.”

“What kind of favors are up for grabs?” he jokes.

I ignore the way my stomach tightens and shut off the oven.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he says.

His eyes don’t leave me as I work around the kitchen, getting plates and glasses and silverware out of the cabinets. Even though I feel completely comfortable in his presence, his attention on me makes me hyperaware of everything.

The way my shirt covers my backside. How my pants are a little loose in the leg and probably make my thighs look big. The crazy strands of hair that I had planned on taming before Holden got home from work.

I gulp back my self-consciousness and hold a plate out to him.

“Here,” I say. “If you want dinner.”

“I thought it wasn’t included in my rate.”

His grin is adorable. I get now how women say they want to kiss a smile off a man’s face, because that’s exactly what my instinct is to do—reach up, cup his face in my hands, and kiss the heck out of him.

But I won’t. Because I don’t hate myself.

Too much.

He takes the plate from me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I bat my eyelashes at him and then bump him with my hip. “I do draw the line on making your plate for you, which is a total thing around here. And I’m also filling my plate first, because I’m starving.”

He laughs as I take a slice of meatloaf from the platter. Next to it, I add some mashed potatoes and baked beans. He trails behind me, taking a scoop of each, and then follows me to the table.

“What did you do today?” he asks.

“I booked two reservations for next week. Washed down the staircase. Priced some sheets.” I fill both glasses up with ice. “Do you have any idea how expensive sheets can be? It’s crazy.”

“I love good sheets,” he says, taking a glass from me. He fills both with tea before leading me back to the table.

We sit across from each other like we’ve done it a hundred times before. It seems so normal to have this man sitting in my kitchen, the evening sunlight dancing across his face for only me to see, while we have a conversation about our day.

It’s strange and sort of great if you like that kind of thing. I could like this kind of thing. The concept has me looking away from him in case he’s a mind reader.

I shake my head. “Well, I suggest you keep your expectations low around here, because I’m not shelling out that kind of money for a damn sheet. I don’t care how many customers I might be able to attract.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it. The corners of his lips curl toward the ceiling.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“You were going to say something.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “My comment, while true, was probably inappropriate, and I’d like to have this evening go smoothly. Especially since you’re trying to seduce me with meatloaf and potatoes instead of luxury linens.”