Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kieran

A grunt from the other side of the bedroom wall woke me up. Though after the Taylor Swift explosion yesterday and Ellie's getting hurt because of my bullshit, my sleep wasn't the deepest anyway.

"Come on, come on," Ellie said from far away.

I slid out of bed. Was she already testing?

I wandered into the living room, waiting for her to grumble at me for being late, even though it was early o'clock. Instead, I found her butt wriggling in the air in a small, tight pair of black shorts. She stretched her leg behind her and lowered to the floor in a deep lunge, then brought her other leg back until she was in the top of a plank. Her arms shook and she hissed her breath out.

Yoga , my brain finally said after going through all the sexy options. The woman on Ellie's laptop was going through the same string of poses.

I could've let her know I was there. But all the words I had were "Yes," and "That," and "Want."

Oh no . Hard no. She was grumpy and stubborn and as much fun as Mass on Good Friday. The fact that a low-down part of me wanted to pull those shorts down and take a bite of her was irrelevant.

Now you're thinking like her.

I needed to go, but the floor had turned into wet concrete.

She turned shakily into a side plank, and her eyes met mine. "Ack!" Her arm collapsed under her and I jerked forward, but she turned fast and eased into a sitting position. Her blue tank top cut low and tight across her chest. "Good morning."

"Morning," I definitely didn't say to her breasts. "Sorry. I'll go now."

Her eyebrows went up. "You've never seen a fat woman doing yoga badly before?"

"No." I shook my head hard. "I mean, should you do that after yesterday?"

"I'm fine." She tucked her legs to the side and tilted her head. "So you were staring because you were worried?"

There was no good answer to that question except to get out of here.

I'd go for a long run, that would help. Then I'd take an even longer shower. A cold one.

Ellie

When I'd come out of the shower, Kieran was gone, because of course he'd disappear without telling me.

I'd long finished my scrambled eggs and was updating the expenses spreadsheet when a key scratched in the front door lock.

"Where were you?" I asked impatiently when Kieran came in.

He picked up one foot and stretched out his quad. So elegant. Clearly, he'd be much better at yoga than me without even trying. "Running. You're not the only one who likes to exercise in the morning. It's really pretty out there. The hills are super lush and green."

A blurry splatter of pinkish-brown skin stretched across his knee. A burn scar? That must have been agony for him. I shook my head. "If you want to run for hours, please get up earlier. We…" Then my brain shorted out, because he'd pulled his T-shirt up to wipe sweat off his face.

"Something wrong?" he said as he dropped the fabric, giving me a shit-eating grin.

Not helpful. I kept my eyes on his scarred red eyebrow. Eyebrows weren't erotic.

He wasn't even my type, for crying out loud. Max had been six-two and played rugby for fun. He'd made me feel small and delicate, in a way that undermined all my feminist credentials but never failed to get me hot, especially when he tugged me close to whisper about all the filthy, delicious things he was going to do to me.

In comparison, Kieran was more jockey than rugby player. But jockeys still had abs. Defined ones.

"Please take a shower," I said to interrupt my thoughts. "I can smell you from here. And we need to get to the market before all the good produce disappears."

"I'm pretty sure they'll still have stuff in an hour. Can I at least have breakfast before we go?"

"I bought granola bars," I said, all business. "You can eat one in the car."

His eye roll could be seen from space, but he didn't argue with me for once.

Thirty minutes later, we could smell and hear the farmers' market before we saw it. A jazz band sent jaunty trumpet and sax notes bopping through the air, where they mixed with the aromas of rotisserie chicken, kettle corn, and just-picked vegetables. Green-and-white gazebos lined three sides of the square, and dogs and toddlers frolicked in the grass. Groups of people sat in circles under the soft winter sun, sharing the picnics they'd put together.

"Pickings aren't going to be amazing because it's February, but we'll definitely find some good citrus and bitter leaves," I thought aloud. "Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll have some super-early asparagus."

No response.

I turned around to see he'd stopped to talk to a young guy who was holding out a phone. "Uh, Kieran?"

"Kieran!" someone echoed.

"Kieran O'Neill!"

"Hey, Leprechaun!"

As more people crowded closer, holding up their phones, I stepped way back.

"Can I get a selfie?" an older woman said.

"You're the best, man," a man declared.

"Thank you very much," Kieran said, again and again. The words must have been meaningless after a while, but his warmth and ease never changed, his big smile never faltered. He liked this, I realized, sharing his enthusiasm with all these people.

"Where's your bandanna, man?" some smartass asked.

Kieran signed someone's arm and said cheerfully, "Left it at home!"

"Can I get a selfie?" someone interrupted. I lost count of the number of pictures he took.

"Who's she?" a woman asked him, suddenly looking directly at me. "She looks super familiar."

I had no desire for Tad to get annoyed with me again. When Kieran made eye contact with me, I gave him the tiniest headshake. He gave me a miniscule nod back.

"Don't know," he said, conspicuously turning his back to me, and I made myself scarce, ignoring the little spark of gratitude in my chest.

Kieran

Boy, being famous was nice sometimes. Everyone was acting like I made their day better just by showing up. All I had to do was grin, take a few selfies. And live with the ridiculous nickname. I hoped someday I could be just Kieran O'Neill, badass serious chef who happened to be short and ginger.

But after a while I was missing quiet. I was missing focus. I was missing calm. I couldn't see the person who was all those things.

"Thanks so much, everybody, but I need to get going. All this beautiful produce isn't going to cook itself." I repeated myself a few times before everyone took the hint, but finally I could look around for Ellie.

She'd found a bench a few hundred feet away and had stretched her arms across the back, face turned to the sun. Everything about her was still and relaxed. As I walked toward her, I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "You all right?" I asked when I got to her.

"Just working on my tan," she said, eyes still closed. "How was everybody?"

Her slow, gentle voice made me want to sit next to her and lean on her shoulder, which would be totally professional. "Really good," I said fast to push the intimate image away. "Super excited about the book."

Her eyes opened and mouth turned up, and I wondered what her biggest smile would look like. "That's exactly what you want. I'm glad you have people who support you."

There was the big mystery of Ellie Wasserman. What did she want? What made her happy? Our first meeting had planted a seed, and now my curiosity was a tiny little plant, growing more and more every day.

I was about to ask when a high, sweet voice said, "Kieran?"

I turned to see a college-age girl, all straight black hair and long skinny-jean legs. "Would you be interested in some local honey?" she said, looking up from under her eyelashes, biting her glossy lip just a little.

Not really. But then Ellie said dryly, "Sure he would."

Just for that snark, I lied cheerfully, "I love honey. Please, lead the way."

Ten minutes later, I was full of sugar and regret. Ellie was tapping notes on her phone at my side, but the girl ignored her completely, giving me spoonful after spoonful.

Less note-taking, more rescuing, I thought at Ellie. Why didn't Vulcan mind-melding work in real life?

Instead, I took the next tiny spoon the girl offered me. "Delicious," I said as the tenth different honey coated my tongue. After this, I was going to need a gallon of water to rinse away the sticky sweetness.

"You said that about the first one." She pouted.

"Mmm. But this one is also delicious."

She bustled around the stall, looking for more things to torture me with. "You should tell your pastry chef to use honey in her desserts instead of sugar. Sugar's so bad for you."

"Uh-huh." The day I told Sasha how to bake was the day I decided I didn't need my balls anymore.

"Oh, and you have to try this," the girl said. "This is super new and special. We found an old recipe and started brewing our own mead. We're not selling it yet, but I think you'll love it." She took out a small pitcher from a cooler and poured the gold liquid into a taster cup.

I smelled it first and jerked my head back a little. "Um, how alcoholic is it?"

"Four percent. About the same as a Coors Light. My dad lets me drink it at home."

Shit. Even after five years of sobriety I hated announcing to total strangers, Hey, I'm in recovery . How could I make sure people knew I didn't judge them for drinking, just that it turned me into a walking, talking shitshow? I didn't want anyone's pity either.

Dr. Meyer and Steve had both told me to get over myself and be honest, but my mom demanding that we always look like a perfect family in spite of my dad's friendship with Jim Beam made some habits hard to break.

"Why aren't you tasting it? Is there something wrong with it?" she asked, confused.

"No, no. I'm just enjoying the fragrance." I took a great big sniff.

She shrugged. "I mean, it's not wine. It smells like honey. You should just drink it."

No new customers appeared, and my phone didn't ring.

"Dude, share the wealth." Ellie plucked the cup from my hand and chugged the contents.

I tried to act grumpy and not relieved. "Please, Kieran. Thank you, Kieran."

She ignored me and smiled with all her teeth at the girl. "That was excellent."

The girl blinked. "Good."

Ellie's voice turned into that low, soothing purr she'd used with her cat. "I'm so sorry, that was totally rude of me to interrupt. What's your name?"

"Hayden?"

"Nice to meet you, Hayden. Where did you get your top? That red's such a joyful color."

She plucked at the fabric. "Oh, thanks. I got it at the thrift store."

"You have great taste. Now, I just ran out of the acacia honey I've been using at home and I want to try something new. What would you recommend that's dark and rich?"

Five minutes of breezy small talk later, Ellie handed over her cash. "You've taught me so much, thank you. I'll have a small jar of that buckwheat one, I appreciate you being so helpful."

When we walked away, I waited for her to say What the hell? or Why didn ' t you just drink the mead? but she just put her sunglasses on and walked to the next stall.

"Don't you want to know?" I finally asked as she studied a farmer's pile of winter salad leaves.

"Why you were stalling?" she answered, distracted.

I felt like I had walked out onto a conversational tree branch that I wasn't sure would hold my weight. "Yeah."

She bit her lip, then said, "I saw she was trying to make you do something you didn't want to do. Why you didn't want to is irrelevant."

"But do you want to know?"

She lifted her sunglasses and her eyes gave me a flash of being on the beach in early September. Hot white-gold sand cushioning my feet, the silvery blue sea just waiting for me to dive in.

"You'll tell me when you're ready," she said quietly. "I can wait."

Before I could say thank you, she pulled out a piece of paper and Kind Ellie changed back into Business Ellie. "Come on, we still have to buy stuff."

"Let's split up," I suggested.

Her eyebrows went up, all skepticism.

"No, look. If I follow you around, I'll get bored and you'll get pissy. I've got cash. I'll meet you back here in half an hour."

She sighed and dug around in her huge purse. "OK. Here's a bag for you. Can you get receipts, even if it's just a piece of paper with a number on it? I need to add them to the spreadsheet so Tad can pay you back."

"Sure, sure," I said, already thinking of all the delicious things I could find. Farmers' markets had always been my happy place.

Ellie

As Kieran jogged off, I thought I knew what he might be hiding.

He'd looked at that sample cup like it was poison, and I knew that some chefs struggled with addiction. But Kieran was bright-eyed, clear-skinned, and had run for miles this morning. Whatever he was doing to stay sober was working.

He'd run off to look around the market like a kid let loose on the playground. Maybe that was the kind of positive energy that could move the whole project forward.

I had no idea what he'd get, so I stuck to basics. Speckled brown eggs that the farmer promised had been laid just that morning, two dark loaves of sourdough that crackled when I squeezed them gently. Meaty bacon from happy pigs, a chunk of salmon glowing coral and smelling like the sea. Little waxy potatoes firm to my touch, dirt-skinned onions, bouquets of fresh herbs. As I inhaled the scent of a bunch of rosemary, hot dusty summer captured in its needles, I felt my worries loosen their grip on me for a second, pleasure taking their place. When she'd taught me her recipes years ago, Diane had insisted I smell, taste, touch with every step, telling me to trust my senses.

Anxiety surged again. I hoped she was coping without me. I wasn't sure she could.

Thirty minutes later, I was ready and waiting on the bench. Fifteen minutes after that, Kieran ran up muttering, "Sorry, sorry, I lost track of time." My mouth opened, and he put his hand up. "And I know I should've looked at my phone. I forgot. I always forget. But I'm here now."

It was like he wasn't just talking to me, but also to the many, many people he'd had to explain or apologize to. "All right. What did you buy?"

His bag hit the bench with a heavy thunk. "Some really nice fennel with lots of fronds," he said, pulling out the vegetables as he went. "Some Belgian endive and radicchio from a hipster lumberjack guy, and some brand-new green garlic."

"Oh, I love that. The baby cloves are so tender and sweet."

He grinned. "Exactly. See, good things come from just looking around and picking whatever you want."

A tiny candle of an idea lit up in the back of my brain. But it wasn't bright enough just yet. I looked down into the bag and saw a pile of fruit. "How many oranges did you buy?"

"A bunch? This woman had these blood oranges that were just gorgeous. Here, I'll show you."

I glanced at my watch and saw it was past time to go back to the cottage. "Wait, you can show me later."

"Just chill a second," he chided. He dug his thumbnail into the blushing peel and pulled until the dark red fruit appeared, spraying citrus oil everywhere. As he pulled the fruit into its sections, it glowed like rubies. It made the fruit I'd bought at the supermarket for our ill-fated experiment look dry and stale in comparison.

"Why do you have to show me now?"

I stopped cold, because he'd grabbed my chin. His fingers were soft, insistent.

"Because I want to. Open," he said. He was smiling, but there was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Determination?

When I gaped at him, he popped the orange segment in my mouth.

I bit down, and my eyes fluttered shut. Sweet-sour fireworks exploded across my tongue, and I couldn't help but moan a little bit. I tasted orange, of course, but there were raspberries and a little bit of rose petal, too.

"That's incredible," I said once I'd swallowed. "Like eating a sunset."

When I opened my eyes, he was staring at my mouth. I felt fireworks again, this time in my stomach. But a second later, he smiled big and said, "I was going to say a party in my mouth, but I guess that's why you're the writer."

I tried to shake my head, but his hand was still on my jaw. "Were you going to feed me something else?"

He blinked, then jerked away like I'd singed him. "Sorry. I should have asked before I grabbed you."

"No, I get it." The tang of the orange, the roughness of his calluses on my skin—it was like I'd drunk a glass of champagne on an empty stomach. My voice was a little high and shaky when I said, "Thank you for sharing it with me. It was really special." I swallowed and said more normally, "Home time?"

He nodded, and as we walked to the car he kept up a string of chatter about the people he'd met. I nodded, and smiled, and kept my fingers from finding the place where he'd touched me.