City Beautiful

by CM Foss

  She stopped and turned. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why? What’s wrong with meatloaf?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that your answers continue to surprise me.”

  I shrugged. “My mom made a good meatloaf.”

  “She must have, ’cause you have to make a good one to compensate for its name.”

  I laughed. She had a point.

  “How about you? What would you ask for?”

  “Creamed chipped beef. Like, the frozen kind.”

  My eyes widened. A lot. “No way.”

  She nodded and turned to keep walking. “Yep.”

  “I just… can’t imagine that. You eating… that.”

  “Oh, I don’t anymore.” She shuddered visibly. “Now if I eat it, I make it myself.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do,” I muttered under my breath. I didn’t even know you could make it yourself, let alone how it was done.

  “I heard that,” she shot back.

  I grinned at her back.

  Ivy handed me a basket as we walked into the garden. “Here, pick whatever vegetables you want.”

  I looked around, overwhelmed and feeling like an idiot. “What is all this?”

  She waved a hand around in front of her. “Walk around and look. See if you can figure it out.”

  I started to move up and down the aisles (were they called aisles?), peering under leaves to identify the different plants. I felt like a little kid. “Oh, broccoli!” I kept walking. “Really? That’s how brussels sprouts grow?” I bent over and picked up a large leaf to see weird-looking pumpkin-type things. “I don’t even know what that is.” Straightening, I turned back to Ivy who was watching with her arms crossed over her chest, chewing her lip to hide her amusement. “I still don’t know what to pick.”

  “You can’t find something that sounds good?” She threw her hands on her hips, and I was truly starting to enjoy riling her up.

  “It’s overwhelming.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she twisted her lips in thought. “Okay. Pick the things you don’t like.”

  I nodded in surprise. “You’re up for that challenge?”

  “I am. Hit me with it.”

  “Okay. You asked for it.”

  I quickly loaded my basket with tomatoes, brussels sprouts, onions (once she told me how to find them), and carrots. She shook her head at me when I presented her with my stash at the gate.

  “It’s very telling how easily you could pick out the things you don’t like,” she said.

  “Oh yeah? What does that tell you?”

  “You focus on the negative.”

  “I’m not negative,” I said, mildly offended. “I just know what I don’t like.”

  “I’m not saying you yourself are negative. I just mean”—she sighed, long and hard—“people tend to latch onto the idea of things they don’t like. The distaste is so clear to them, and that’s what they remember. The negative. But they forget about the good things. Tell me, what’s your problem with brussels sprouts?”

  I felt my shoulders tense as I thought back. “My mom made them one time. They were horrible, mushy, and bitter. And she made us eat all of them. I’ve never forgotten it.” I held up my hands. “Okay. I see what you mean.”

  “I’m very confident I can change your mind on them. Most people have had a similar experience. Now tell me this. Have you ever had just a really, really good, I don’t know… salad?”

  I tried to think back to something that stood out. “I’m sure I have. I like salad fine. But I can’t think of any particular instance.”

  “You just proved my point.” She threw up her hands triumphantly.

  I cocked my head to the side. “I’m not saying I completely understand you, because you’re a little crazy, but what’s the solution?”

  She looked back at me and smiled as she exited through the gate.

  “Focus on the good. And then don’t forget about it.”

  I followed. Again.

  Ivy

  I set straight to work in the kitchen of my little two-bedroom cottage, planning to roast a chicken with some of the vegetables while Patrick stood and leaned against the counter. His presence seemed to take up a lot of space as I moved around. He’d been a little quiet since the garden, and I hoped I hadn’t offended him in any way. I knew I could get on my soapbox a little bit. But certain things just drove me crazy. Plus it was sort of my job. People came to this place, my place, from all over to get away from their everyday lives and learn how to simplify, break it down. Focus their energy on what really mattered. I was proud of what I’d created, but those people paid me for that service and came searching for it. This was just some poor guy I met on the side of the road who had no idea what he was getting himself into.

  However, he hadn’t left. Yet.

  He leaned over my shoulder to see what I was doing as I sliced the onions. I tensed a little, willing my body to relax. Granted it made little sense, but it’s what you have to do when the feel of a strange man standing over you feels way too good. The weird thing was he didn’t feel like much of a stranger.

  “I forgot to ask you something,” I said.

  “Hm?” he asked quietly as he stood close behind me, not touching. So why could I feel him so well?

  “Are you a serial killer?”

  He chuckled, and his soft breath tickled the side of my neck. “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  I nodded, working hard to stay focused on the food. “Just so you know, I don’t usually invite random people to stay and have dinner with me. You just… seemed like you needed it.”

  His hand reached over my shoulder, and he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I paused in my chopping and took a deep breath before resuming my task.

  “Yeah, I think I did,” he said softly.

  He moved away to sit down at my kitchen table. I finished prepping everything in silence, lost in thought and enjoying his eyes on me way too much. After washing my hands at the sink, I finally turned to face him. He had a small smile on his face, a five-o’clock shadow making him look a little less city and a little more… edible. His dark brown hair was mussed, and he was rumpled and sexy and still, oddly enough, a relative stranger sitting in my kitchen.

  “What’s next?” he asked, drawing me out of my musings as well as my rather blatant perusal of him.

  “Showers.”

  His eyes lit up and his lips tightened to suppress a grin. A breath of laughter escaped me.

  “Come on. Let’s go get your stuff, and I’ll set you up in a room over in the main house. You can shower and relax a little and come back over when you’re ready.” I waved a hand at the oven. “This’ll take a little over an hour.”

  He followed me out the front door as I guided him to the path that would lead us to the parking area. You couldn’t see the main house from my cottage, which was just how I liked it, but it was actually just a short walk.

  “So that’s all you had to do to make me the dinner that’s supposed to change my life?” he asked.

  I snorted. “Cooking is easy. The real work started a long time ago when the chicks hatched and the first seed was planted. That’s what makes it so good. I think the best things in life are simple and hard earned. And food is an excellent example of that. You only have to dress it up when it sucks.”

  He laughed loudly from behind me as we reached his car, the sound ringing out over the quiet of the farm, lending color to the landscape.

  “Words to live by.” He shook his head, still chuckling as he rummaged around for a small duffel bag and a hanging bag, slinging both over his shoulder.

  “Lead the way,” he smirked.

/>   We walked together through the back door, Patrick holding it open for me again. I smiled up at him as I ducked under his arm, inhaling slightly. He shouldn’t still smell good. I wondered if I could contain myself after he showered.

  Leading him down a back hallway, I picked out the nicest and largest room, possibly showing off a little. I was really proud of this place. I had done much of the design and renovations myself to make it clean and cozy and relaxing. There were lots of big windows that let in the sun even when it was setting. The walls were painted in whites and creams, the wood furniture was dark and luxurious, and the bedding was thick and lush, like crawling into a marshmallow mixed with a cloud. When people stayed here, they oftentimes didn’t want to get out of bed.

  But that was sort of my motto, I suppose. Work all day and work hard. Enjoy it and have something to show for it. Then slide into a really good bed and sleep just as hard. It really was simple.

  Patrick turned in the middle of the room to look around. “This is really beautiful, Ivy.” His gaze fell on me as I stood in the doorway. “Stunning, really.”

  I was quiet for an awkward moment before clearing my throat. It was the first time he said my name, and it sounded… different coming from his lips. “Thanks. Thank you. I really love it.” I made myself stop before I rambled. And I made myself stop thinking about the bed he was standing next to. “Towels are in the bathroom along with anything else you might need. I’ll just… leave you alone and um… see you over at my place when you’re ready.”

  Why did I sound nervous? My heart was fluttering again. I wasn’t usually a flutterer. So I spun around and left to clean myself up without another word. Like an idiot. An awkward idiot.

  Chapter 6

  Patrick

  I’d never showered so fast in my life. And I’d just finished up my residency. Truth is residents don’t shower that much anyway. But when they do, it’s fast. Just like sleeping. There’s not much time for enjoyment or lingering.

  Maybe that’s why this afternoon was so impressionable. Nothing was rushed, but we also never stopped moving. It was physical and busy, but there was no stress. I could see why corporations would send people out here. I felt… good. And I was starving.

  I sighed when I looked down at the clothes I’d laid out. They were nice and expensive and certainly had their place in my life, but I was pretty sure Ivy would make fun of me. When did I start dressing like this every single day? I used to be just a regular guy. I wore T-shirts. Now my wardrobe consisted of scrubs, tailored pants, and button-downs.

  I pulled on a pair of stiff jeans and shrugged on a light blue dress shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror as I began to button it. Honestly, I think it could have stood up on its own. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen, and the french cuffs were starched into stiff wings. Quickly, I ripped it off and crumpled it into a ball in my hands, rubbing the fabric together to try to soften it. Then I threw it on the floor and stomped on it in my bare feet. I shook it out and put it back on, buttoning it and rolling the sleeves to my elbows, leaving it untucked. I looked back at the mirror. I had to give the dry cleaner credit. The damn shirt still wasn’t very wrinkled. But it did look more relaxed. And I’d just spent the past six minutes thinking about it. Shit.

  I decided that being alone in this giant house was too much for my thoughts. The quiet was making me crazy, so I quickly slipped on a clean pair of loafers, without wondering at all why I had so many, and walked out to the path that would lead me to Ivy.

  The sun was setting in all its brilliance. Reds and oranges and pinks swirled around the sky, contrasting against the mountain peaks. I walked slowly for once, gazing upward, noting the moon already making its appearance directly over Ivy’s cottage.

  I knocked on her front door and waited until it swung open. She stood in front of me, barefoot and beautiful. Her incredible hair was still wet from the shower, braided loosely over her shoulder. Back home it was a look that women spent hours trying to make look authentic, and she pulled it off effortlessly. She wore a pair of jean shorts that revealed her strong, toned legs and a loose-fitting white tee. That was it. Nothing special about it, except her.

  Her smile widened as I stood there staring, and her striking green eyes sparkled.

  “Come on in, city.” She held the door open wider and I walked in, taking a look around.

  As daylight waned, her little house looked even warmer, even more inviting. Candlelight glowed from the kitchen table, but I could tell it wasn’t just for effect. She was the type of person who lit candles regularly, just for herself.

  “You’re right on time,” she said, brushing past me. “I was just about to pull the chicken out. Wine?”

  I nodded as she poured us each a glass, passing one to me and clinking it with hers.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  I felt a smile spread across my face. “Cheers.”

  She smiled back for a moment before turning away. “Okay, sit and relax. Prepare for your world to change here in just a few minutes.”

  I chuckled. “It’s hard to relax with that knowledge hanging over me.”

  She laughed, but that was the only response I got as she pulled the roasting pan out of the oven and stirred some pots on the stove.

  I sipped my wine and watched her, though I was actually oddly relaxed.

  “I don’t think anyone has ever cooked for me before,” I said. “Outside my family, anyway.”

  “Really? No girlfriends or anything?”

  “Ah, no. No girlfriends or… anything.”

  I could almost feel her rolling her eyes, even though her back was still turned.

  “You ever have a one-night stand?” she asked, just as I was taking a swallow of wine. I choked hard, coughing and sputtering, trying not to shower the table with it.

  I felt, more than actually saw, her sit across from me.

  “That a yes or a no?”

  I nodded, wiping my eyes. “Yes. You?”

  She snorted. “No.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugged and got up again to set plates on the counter. I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head and figure out what had just happened. But instead of asking, I just watched her again, uncharacteristic uncertainty keeping me mute.

  She moved so smoothly through the kitchen, so confidently. I couldn’t see what she was plating, but she would step side to side, hips swaying as she leaned to get a spoonful of this or that, tasting as she went. The tasting made me have to adjust my seat. I could tell when a bite was particularly good ’cause she’d shimmy her hips ever so slightly. I was mesmerized. She carved the chicken with a knife that looked way too big for her tiny self, but never once did it cross my mind to offer to take it from her. She didn’t need my help, plus she’d probably stab me with it.

  “Breast or thigh?”

  “Huh?” I shook myself to clear my head.

  She laughed and pointed to the chicken.

  “Oh, uh. I don’t know. Whatever.” Like I fucking cared about chicken.

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head, muttering to herself.

  I waited until she turned holding platters full of food and set them at the center of the table. She refilled our glasses and sat back down across from me, candlelight glowing and flickering off to the side.

  “Ready?” she asked, holding her fork out toward me.

  We cheers with utensils? That was beyond my comprehension, but I tapped her fork with mine anyway, struggling to hold back my laughter.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  I looked down at the table, studying the array of food while Ivy watched for my reaction. No pressure. On the plate in front of me, I had a sampling of white and dark meat, perfectly cooked with golden, crispy skin and carved so that each bite would have a taste of it. I took a deep b
reath and started serving myself from the other dishes. Brussels sprouts were halved and roasted, carrots were left whole, but also roasted. Mushroom gravy sat in the center, and there was a bowl of foiled-wrapped balls as well.

  “What are those?” I pointed.

  “Onions.”

  Oh Lord. I picked one up gingerly between my fingers and set it on my plate before turning to the tomatoes.

  “They’re so… red.”

  She smiled at me. “I know. It’s a totally different food.”

  I looked at the simple yet beautiful presentation of colors. “Did you make the mozzarella?”

  Her grin widened brilliantly. “I did. Of course.”

  “Of course.” I smirked, serving up the caprese salad.

  When my plate was full, I clasped my hands in front of me and looked at her expectantly.

  “Aren’t you gonna eat?” I asked.

  “I will in a sec. I don’t want to miss you taking a bite of everything.” She was practically vibrating with giddiness.

  “Where should I start?”

  She twisted her lips and sucked them between her teeth. “You have to decide. It’s part of your therapy.”

  I snorted but decided to just dig in, beginning with my first nemesis. Tomatoes.

  “I hate tomatoes.” I sighed.

  “You should never say that at a meal.”

  “That I hate something?”

  “Hate’s a strong word. It’ll harden your heart. Instead, try saying that it’s not your favorite.”

  I snorted. “Okay. Tomatoes are not my favorite.”

  She winked at me as I braved the first bite. They were… amazing. They had flavor and texture, and mixed with her cheese and the basil, the entire effect stunned me. Before I knew it, I was anxious to try everything. The brussels sprouts were crisp and salty, addictive. The carrots were sweet with just basic seasoning. The chicken with gravy was like something the best restaurant in Dallas could never replicate. Even the onion was… weirdly good.