Looking at the mess I’ve made, I wish I would’ve thought out my plan a little better.
A little more realistically.
The tile is still smudged and rings of water mar the stovetop. Onion peels and garlic bits are strewn across the counter along with an empty spaghetti box and the sauce jar.
Kitchen chaos gets under my skin. I always feel like everything in my life is a disaster if the kitchen is a war zone. I don't understand why, but it's always been the case. But this level of chaos coupled with the fact that I didn’t get much, if any, sleep has me on the verge of saying screw it and going back to bed.
But then knowing the mess was still here and that I’d have to clean it as soon as I get up would prevent me from sleeping. So, I stick it out.
I spy a Tupperware container in the top cabinet above the cups. I grab it just as my phone rings. I find it buried under a heap of paper towels that I used to dry the counter after I spilled the water earlier.
“Hey, Libby,” I say as I run the screen down my shirt to rid it of any dampness from the towels.
“Why do you sound so nervous? And sketchy?”
“I was drying my phone,” I tell her.
“Do I want to know?”
I look around the kitchen. “Let’s just say that your kitchen has seen better days.”
“What did you do?” she asks, her voice teetering on panic.
“Just … making some spaghetti.”
It sounds easy enough, and I sell the idea well that it’s just a normal person in the kitchen making a simple dish. Any random person overhearing this conversation wouldn’t think anything of it. Except Libby isn’t a random person. She knows me. Well.
“Tell me you aren’t trying to make some fancy recipe with a hundred ingredients again,” she moans. “And that you aren’t doing it in my beautiful, clean, spotless kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, just keep that image in your head.”
She fakes a wail, and it makes me laugh.
I put her on speakerphone and sit the phone by the spatula. I locate the strainer I saw earlier and plop it into the sink.
“I promise you’ll never know I was here when you get home,” I say. “I’ll have this place spic-and-span.”
“You better.”
The pasta is heavy as I lug it to the sink. Steam rolls off the drained spaghetti and coats my face in starchy water droplets.
“May I ask what possessed you to make yourself dinner?” she asks coyly. “Don’t you usually just make toast?”
I give the strainer a little shake.
She doesn’t need me to tell her. She’s figured it out on her own. I’m sure that in her little romantic world, she’s already shipped her neighbor and me together in some Disney-esque storyline.
Poor girl.
“Well, I was thinking,” I say as I dump the pasta in the sauce, “that if I can’t pay Boone back with money, I have to do something. And spaghetti is classy … and cheap.”
The words come out nonchalantly as if this is a normal course of events—like I’m the girl who makes an apple pie for a bake sale. But, truth be told, I’m not Holly Homemaker. I can throw something together and usually better than this, but it’s not going to be gourmet.
But what else do you do for a guy like Boone Mason?
I did a little research on Google last night. While Libby has talked about Boone off and on, she left out a few details—like they’re ridiculously wealthy and very connected.
The entire family, based on my “research,” is beautiful. They’re filthy rich, and they seem to use their photogenic qualities and large bank accounts to benefit a ton of charities in the state.
It’s overwhelming … and a little humiliating when I remember why, exactly, I know of them.
Libby laughs. “Just make sure you cook the meat all the way through. You don’t want to kill him as a thank you.”
“Don’t jinx me.”
The oven timer blares its warning for me to get the garlic bread before it burns. I grab a pot holder and take the pan out. Scents of garlic and oregano fill the air as I set the bread down on the counter.
The center of the little toasts looks a little white. I poke at it with the tip of my finger to try to tell whether it’s Parmesan or ice. It’s not cold but not actually hot either.
Crap.
“It can’t be ice,” I mutter, pressing into the soft bread again.
“What can’t be ice?”
I sigh. “I had the garlic bread in for seventeen minutes, which was exactly halfway in the suggested cooking time. It feels warm-ish but …” I poke it again. “It has to be done, right? Seventeen minutes is plenty of time.”
Libby giggles. “Did you put it in during or after you preheated the oven?”