By 11:00 p.m. Dawson was feeling completely exhausted, but confident about the court hearing in the morning. He’d researched every possible loophole and had a solid argument and evidence for each. He picked up his cell and wondered if it was too late to text Clara. Probably. Of course, she had said she had sleeping issues as well. But still . . . he felt like he had to walk a bit of a tightrope where she was concerned.
Her kissing him had made it clear that she did like him, as more than a friend, but he didn’t want to . . . what had she accused him of? Being overwhelming. So he instead set his alarm for 5:30 a.m. so he could get a run in before he had to get ready in the morning. After setting his phone on the nightstand, he was surprised that a text buzzed in.
Maybe it was Clara, and his pulse drummed as he picked up the phone.
Hey Dawson, I hope it’s not too late to text. Or if you’re asleep, you have your phone turned off so that this doesn’t wake you up. LOL.
Dawson scanned to the very end of the lengthy text and saw Paula’s name. It was like someone had knocked the breath out of him. He scrolled back up to start reading again. Hopefully she was going to tell him she was annoyed with their moms too, and that she refused to be set up.
Your mom gave me your number and thought I should reach out to you since you’re going through a hard time. I told your mom that I totally get what you’re going through! My divorce was final about a year ago, and some things are still hard, you know. Like the loneliness. Not that I didn’t make the right decision by kicking Greg out, but I’m sure you understand the mixed emotions. They’re crazy! Anyway, you’ve got my number now. Let’s talk sometime. Maybe grab a coffee or something. It would be fun to catch up. –Paulie
He’d called her Paulie, as had a bunch of kids in high school. With the reminder of the nickname, more memories came flooding back. He sat down on his bed with a sigh. One part of him wanted to ignore the text and delete it. The other part of him knew his mom knew Paula had his number, so if he ignored the text he’d hear about it. And waiting until morning to reply would only mean he would stress about it all night long.
So he typed a reply.
Welcome back to Pine Valley. Yeah, divorce sucks, although I’m now dating a great woman. So I guess there’s life after divorce, huh? I’ve got a crazy work schedule, which I’m sure my mom informed you about, since she tells everyone. But I’ll most likely see you at the barbeque Saturday. Have a good night.
He hit SEND and turned off his phone, hoping he’d been nice but obvious that he wasn’t interested in “catching up.”
Clara double-checked the address she’d plugged into her phone. Dawson lived only five miles away. All this time. She was surprised they hadn’t run into each other sooner than that night at the yoga class. When she pulled into the condo parking lot, it didn’t take her long to figure out which condo was his.
Before getting out of her car, she took several deep breaths. Kissing Dawson had been impulsive, and she was so grateful that he hadn’t teased her about it afterward. He hadn’t even brought it up or alluded to it, so she wasn’t exactly sure what he thought. She knew he was looking forward to this meal, yet now she was a bit nervous to be in such a private place with him. What if he thought she was now infatuated with him, and he expected a lot more than she was willing to commit to?
Maybe they should have gone to a restaurant, where they’d be surrounded by people and music, and she wouldn’t have to face the awkward conversation that was bound to happen when she told him that the kiss didn’t mean what he thought it meant. She’d been impulsive, perhaps had even felt bad she’d teased him so much. But she knew they’d both been through a lot of pain, and they should be keeping things light between them. It was best for both parties.
Clara groaned, sick of her own philosophizing. Why couldn’t she just enjoy making a meal for a handsome, charming guy without over-analyzing every single thing? Maybe they wouldn’t even have to have “the talk”, but she could make it clear in other non-verbal ways that she wasn’t going to repeat the throwing-herself-at-him kissing episode.
With new determination, Clara opened her door and grabbed the grocery bags out of the back seat. She was going simple tonight—spaghetti, sauce, garlic bread, salad, and brownies for dessert. Easy and fast. If things were awkward, dinner could be made and eaten and over within about thirty minutes. She’d stayed in her work outfit—navy skirt and navy-and-white polka-dotted blouse. She was still wearing her wedge shoes, too, all the better to put her on more even ground with Dawson’s height.
She made her way to the condo, set down two of the bags, and debated whether to knock or ring the doorbell. Finally, she decided to knock—less of an announcement. No one answered. Clara leaned closer to the door to see if she heard footsteps or any sort of movement. Then she turned to scan the parking lot. Yep. His red truck was there. She turned back to the door to knock again, when the door opened.
Dawson held his phone to his ear while he motioned for her to come in. His brown eyes connected with hers, and a jolt of heat went through her as she remembered the way he’d kissed her. She had to distract her mind so she wouldn’t blush.
As she stepped across the threshold and passed him, she tried not to think of how his scent was now becoming familiar to her. Dawson answering the door while on his phone wasn’t exactly the welcome she was expecting, but it took some of the pressure off. Dawson bent down and picked up the rest of the grocery sacks, then followed her into the kitchen. He was still wearing his shirt and tie. Maybe he had just arrived home himself.
Clara noticed that the place was clean—almost sterile, in fact. There weren’t any pictures on the walls or decorations about. A half-dead houseplant languished on the coffee table in the adjoining living room. That room was stark too. The black leather couches contrasted with the white walls, and a flat screen was mounted on one wall, while the other walls remained bare. A bookcase in the corner had stacks of what looked like legal books on it. On the very top of the bookcase, she recognized the copies of the romance novels he’d bought. At least he wasn’t trying to hide them.
While Dawson shut the front door and continued talking on the phone, Clara unloaded the food from the bags. It was clear he was talking to someone from his office. Some of the legal jargon went over her head, but she got the gist that it was a case between a homeowner and an insurance company.
When Dawson caught her eye, he gave an apologetic expression, but Clara waved him off. Busy was good. Busy meant they wouldn’t have to have “the talk.” They could take a few steps backward in their relationship and stay friends.
He perched on the edge of one of the kitchen stools, continuing his conversation. So Clara started searching through cupboards and located a pot big enough for boiling pasta, then found a smaller saucepan for warming up the sauce. She’d pre-made the sauce.
She filled the larger pot with water, set it on the gas stove, and switched on the burner. Then she poured the sauce into the smaller pot. Next she found a cookie sheet that looked like it had seen better days and arranged the French bread on it.
Dawson was concluding his call as she preheated the oven. She pushed buttons until it looked like the oven was on its way to warming up.
“Hey, sorry about that,” Dawson said.
“It’s okay,” she said, turning around. He was standing right in front of her. Her heart about leaped out of her chest.
“Hi,” he said in a low voice, his gaze steady on hers.
Clara swallowed. “Hi.”
“You look nice.”
If he didn’t stop this, she’d start blushing. “Thanks. So do you.”
One side of his mouth lifted while he continued to search her gaze. “Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” he asked.
Clara released a breath, then offered a nervous smile. “Do we have to?”
Dawson lifted a hand and smoothed a stray strand of her hair away from her face. The contact made Clara’s face heat, when she already
felt plenty warm from the preheating oven and boiling pan of water. Dawson’s fingers lingered on the side of her face, and she wondered if he was going to kiss her, right here in his kitchen.
“We don’t have to talk.” His gaze dipped to her mouth.
Clara placed her hands on the counter behind her because she was feeling a bit unsteady.
He dropped his hand, then looked over at the groceries littering the counter. “Spaghetti?”
Clara was both relieved and disappointed when Dawson moved away.
“Yep,” she said. “Does that sound okay?”
He flashed her a smile. “I’ll try to save some for you.”
The moment had ended. He grabbed the bag with the iceberg lettuce in it. “I’ll wash this and start the salad.”
Clara raised a brow. “I didn’t know you made salad.”
“YouTube can be very informative,” he said, turning on the water in the kitchen sink.
As he rinsed off the lettuce, she opened the tub of butter she’d brought, then looked for a knife in the drawers.
He opened the drawer closest to him, and drew out a butter knife. “Need this?”
“Thanks.” She took the knife from him. Her thoughts were whirring, and doing these simple domestic tasks in tandem with Dawson only made her want to tell him that she had meant to kiss him. And that she was starting to really like him too.
He was giving her space, that was clear. And that was the right thing, the best thing. But Clara was sort of missing him, even though they were in the same room together.
“What’s in the sauce? Smells delicious,” he said as he started tearing up the lettuce.
“It’s just a tomato base with some spices and ground sausage bits.”
Dawson paused. “You made it from scratch?”
“It was either that or Ragu.” Clara shrugged. “Ragu’s too sweet. I made the salad dressing, too, since I like to add a few extra things.” Dawson was staring at her like she had two heads. “What?”
“You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Believe me, spaghetti sauce is not hard to make, and salad dressing is even easier. You just have to make them in advance.” Clara used a wooden spoon she’d brought to stir the sauce that was just starting to bubble. There was nothing worse than a cracked wooden spoon, and she didn’t know what kind Dawson might have in his kitchen, so she’d brought her own. She turned the element to simmer so the sauce would be nice and hot when the pasta was finished.
Dawson was still staring at her, not moving.
She met his gaze. “Should I apologize for not telling you that I like to cook from scratch?”
“No, no.” Dawson seemed to snap out of his trance. “That’s the best secret you’ve ever kept from me.” He dried his hands on a kitchen towel, then picked up the two tomatoes she’d brought. “Do these need to be washed?”
“They’re fine.” Clara studied him as he cut out the tomato stems. “You seem pretty handy yourself.”
He shrugged and located a cutting board, then placed the tomatoes on top and started slicing them into wedges. “Like I said, YouTube is a great teacher. What other secrets are you keeping from me?”
“I wouldn’t exactly consider anything in my life a secret,” she said with a laugh. “I mean, I work at a real estate office during the day, read and cook a little during the evenings. Sometimes I go to yoga class. And sometimes I hang out with you.”
Dawson grinned. “I like that last part the best.”
If he wasn’t watching her, she would have put her hand over her heart. He could certainly turn on the charm.
“So, no secrets here,” she finished. The water was at a healthy boil in the large pot, and she crossed to the stove and dumped in the pasta.
“How was work today?” Dawson grabbed the cucumber, then located a peeler and started peeling it.
Clara felt like sitting down and watching this man in his dress shirt and tie continue to chop vegetables. She knew it was a trip down a rabbit hole to compare Dawson to Max, but Max was more of an order-pizza-every-night guy rather than one who would do anything domestic in the kitchen—let alone work alongside her. The few times she’d cooked for him, he’d sat on the living room couch at her grandma’s and watched whatever game happened to be on.
Dawson’s way was much better.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
Clara looked up. “Oh . . . I was just thinking about . . . how you’re going to get your nice clothes splattered with spaghetti sauce if you keep helping me.”
Dawson tilted his head. “First, of course I’m going to help you. You’re cooking, in my kitchen. And second, you’re right, I should probably change.” He looked back at the counter, though, and continued chopping the cucumber. Then he put the lettuce into a Tupperware bowl, along with the veggies. He picked up the sack of croutons. “Did you make these too?”
“No,” Clara said, setting the French bread she had buttered onto the baking sheet, then slid it into the oven. “I’m not that crazy.”
“Good. I was about to start calling you Julia Child.”
She raised her brows. “You know who she is?”
“My mom dragged me to some movie that was based on her life,” Dawson said.
“Oh yeah, the one with Meryl Streep?”
Dawson nodded. “I think it inspired me to cook more than it did my mom. Her main comment after the movie was that Julia Child didn’t have to worry about kids running around while she invented recipes.”
“You’re an only kid, right?”
“Right,” he said. “But if you hear it from my mom, I was like having a dozen kids.”
“What? Bad grades? Always getting into trouble?”
“Good grades, and only got into mischief once in a while.” Dawson winked. “My mom just has a low tolerance for anything that’s not routine.”
“Like me?”
Dawson rinsed off his hands in the kitchen sink, then dried them. He moved toward her and didn’t stop until he leaned toward her and said in her ear, “You’re the best part of my routine.”
Her heart flipped, and before she could think of a reply or whether she should just get it over with and kiss him again, he’d moved away. “I’m going to change.”
And then he was gone. Clara took the opportunity to breathe, and to think about what she’d gotten herself into. What did she expect, coming over here and cooking and spending even more time with Dawson? Especially putting herself in a situation where she was alone with him, making the temptation to kiss him all that stronger.
Being around him more, and thinking about kissing him again, was its own recipe that had an inevitable outcome. They’d be officially dating, and that would open Clara’s heart to vulnerability. Something she wasn’t ready for. Even though Dawson seemed to be a trustworthy guy, and she was seriously attracted to him, he still had baggage. And she had plenty of her own. Just what she’d heard about his mom worried her. If Dawson was overwhelming her senses, what would Dawson, plus his parents’ expectations, do to her?
For some reason, she was missing her grandma even more today. Maybe a good, long talk with her could sort things out. But instead of letting herself get misty-eyed, Clara pulled out the brownie batter she’d pre-mixed. She dumped it into a disposable 9x9 pan she’d brought, pulled out the French bread, and put in the brownies to bake.
The pasta was nearly done, and she turned off the element just as Dawson returned. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and low-slung jeans. And he was barefoot. Clara didn’t know why she found him being barefoot sexy, but she did. It wasn’t something she’d ever noticed about Max. But things about Dawson were impossible not to notice.
“It smells great already,” he said, meeting her gaze with a question in his own eyes.
“It’s almost done,” she said. “Do you have a colander?”
“Uh, no,” Dawson said, walking into the kitchen and getting closer and closer to her. “That pot has a lid with holes in it though.�
�� He bent to search through some lower cupboards. “I just have to find it.”
Clara averted her gaze, because she wasn’t going to stand around checking him out. She stirred the sauce again. It was smelling good.
“Ah, here it is,” Dawson said in a triumphant voice and held up the lid. “I can do it so you don’t burn yourself.”
Clara smirked. “Go ahead. Where are your plates?”
“In the cupboard on the other side of the refrigerator.”
She grabbed two large dinner plates and two smaller plates for the salad or bread. She was impressed that he had both sizes. She had the table set in a few minutes, and with the pasta drained, she started to set the food out. When they were seated, Clara insisted that Dawson take the first bite. After dumping some parmesan cheese on his mound of spaghetti, he dug in.
He swallowed his first bite. “It’s excellent. The best spaghetti I’ve ever had.”
“Good,” Clara said. “The leftovers are even better.”
“So we have another date tomorrow?” he asked.
“Either way, you can keep the leftovers.”
“Really?”
His boyish eagerness made her laugh. “Really.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, twirling another bunch of pasta onto his fork. “My parents are having a barbeque tomorrow. We can have the spaghetti for lunch, then go to the barbeque.”
Clara didn’t say anything for a moment. Meeting his parents felt so . . . official. “Maybe we can just hang out on Sunday.”
“Oh, no,” Dawson said. “Don’t go dormant on me because my parents are involved. They won’t bite, I promise.”
Her gaze narrowed.
“At least, my dad doesn’t,” he said, then took a sip of water. “But . . . well, I don’t think it’s too presumptuous to invite you because we’re practically dating, and you did kiss me.”
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