Being Neighborly(3)
Her eyes drop to our still joined hands, a blush racing over her pale cheeks. “Baltimore, Maryland.”
“A city girl. What brought you out here?”
“One day, it hit me that after my parents moved, I had nothing keeping me in Baltimore. I needed a change. I’m my own boss so I can work anywhere. I stumbled across this listing and could picture myself better here than where I was living. My parents think I’m crazy for moving out to what they would call the ‘middle of nowhere’, but I’m looking forward to unplugging. I wanted to live somewhere peaceful.”
I reach up to tuck a curl behind her ear. “Can’t argue wanting an uncomplicated life. I’ve had to do a little bit a traveling for the farm. I think I’m allergic to city life.”
She laughs, the skin around her eyes crinkling as she looks up at me, and it’s like someone knocked the wind out of me. Needing some distance, I release her hands and abruptly take a step back.
“I’ll just finish up,” I mumble, focusing on the table and not my new neighbor.
The slap of her flip-flops hitting the floor behind me has me turning to look back at her.
“Would you like a drink? I feel awful just sitting here watching you work.”
Can’t argue that logic. Not knowing what she has on hand since she just moved in, I ask for a glass of water.
When she hands me a bottle, I frown. “Tap water is fine for me.”
Her brows come together. “Is it safe to drink?”
“Course it is.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but reaches to take the bottle back from me. I’m almost done putting the final leg on when she brings me a mug of cold tap water.
I lift the mug, turning it to read it. “Smarty Pants?”
She blushes. “It was a gift. I haven’t unpacked all my other kitchen stuff yet and it was already out.”
“I like it.” I hold her eyes as I lift its rim to my lips.
What I don’t say is I like smart girls too, even the clumsy ones.
After draining the mug, I hand it back to her. Out of habit, and seeing how she was assembling it in the first place, I give the two legs she already attached a quick once over. With a couple of extra turns of the screwdriver, I am confident they aren’t going anywhere.
“Ready to flip her?” I ask.
“Um, sure.” She is still holding the mug, almost cradling it. She turns and sets it on the countertop, and then comes to stand opposite me. Mirroring my movements, we both bend, and then lift the table before setting it upright on its legs.
“Nice looking table,” I remark, rubbing my hand across the worn blonde wood.
“Thanks. I’ve had it forever. It was my first adult purchase.”
“No cigarettes or nudey magazines for you?” I tease.
She laughs again. This time, any self-preservation instinct that moved me to flee last time vanishes. Just like a bloom turns toward the sun, I need to be closer to her. I’ve forgotten the table between us, until I bump into it, breaking the spell her laughter cast on me.
“I should go.” I start to back away.
She arches a brow. “And make me eat this pie all by myself? That doesn’t seem very neighborly.”
My eyes find Bess’s apple pie and I hesitate.
Then she goes in for the kill. “I have vanilla ice cream.”
Dammit. That’s just downright irresistible.
“You’ve found my weakness,” I smile.
As she digs through a box for a couple plates, I pull the chairs over and place them around her table.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I offer.
Shaking her head, Bethany motions for me to sit. She joins me not long after with a plate for each of us.
Waiting for her reaction to Bess’s pie, I hold off eating any of mine and just watch her. She loads her fork up with a good amount of pie and pulls it through her ice cream for good measure. She hasn’t noticed my attention is solely on her. Her full lips circle then close around her fork. Riveted, I watch her eyes widen as she pulls the fork from her mouth.
She chews, covers her mouth as she appears to start to say something; she then shakes her head and moans. Her incredulous eyes train themselves onto mine and she slowly chews. After one final gulp her mouth opens.
“Oh, my God. Seriously. Oh, my God.”
I nod, finally able to take my own bite. “I know.”
Unfazed, she continues, “Seriously, this is the best apple pie I have ever had.”
My mouth is full so I nod again and raise my brows. This is not the kind of pie that allows for conversation while it’s being eaten. All thought, focus and attention must be solely on the heaven on earth that is this pie. The addition of slow churned vanilla ice cream makes heaven taste downright sinful. Wait, ice cream?