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?”
“Um …”
“Why didn’t you just buy dinner somewhere and put it in dishes and pretend you made it?”
I gasp. “You’re a freaking genius. A little too late with that wisdom, though, since I’m already elbow deep in spaghetti sauce.” I look down at my arm to see a streak of red going from my wrist and up my forearm. “Literally.”
“I would pay money—big money, to see you like this.”
I turn back to the stove again. “Keep in mind that I’m in your kitchen.”
“Yeah, good point. I don’t want to see any of this.”
“Didn’t think so.” I grab a slotted spoon and stir the sauce around. The pan is sizzling, so I turn the heat down. “On a good note, I talked to Caroline Kapowski this morning.”
“Who is she?”
“The woman I’m going to work for in Hawaii. She’s so sweet, Lib. I love her already. She was signing up her two girls for surfing lessons once school is out and wanted to know if I wanted to take them too. Isn’t that nice?”
“So nice. You do know that I’ll be visiting you as much as possible, right?”
“You better.”
My face lights up as I think about the Kapowskis. Mr. K ushered me into his office where his wife works, doing paperwork and reading old romance novels during the day. They told me that they loved having me work for them but knew Kapowski Hardware wasn’t my end goal. And, as Mrs. Kapowski noted, they suspected my personal life was a bit difficult.
God love them.
Their daughter had mentioned needing a nanny, and they thought of me. Would I be interested? It took everything I had not to cry in the middle of their office.
I grin as I stir the pasta again. “I still can’t believe this happened to me. This whole thing was just dropped in my lap. What are the odds?”
“Good things happen to good people. And you’re a good person.”
“I think we need to temper that confidence,” I say as I head to the refrigerator. “Start talking like that, you might believe it.”
“I do believe it.”
“Well, I hope that works out for you.”
She laughs. “You’re going to be fine.”
Let’s hope.
“So, did your husband take you out last night or what?” I ask.
“He did, and it was wonderful. We went to this seafood place on the water and had the best pinot grigio and mussels. And then we even danced a little to live music by the marina.”
My hand falls from the refrigerator door, and I lean against the counter instead.
She recounts the night with her husband, her voice softening as she loses herself in the details of how he held her hand as they walked down the street like he did when they first started dating. She looked into his eyes and saw a tenderness that she hasn’t seen in a long time. She fell in love with him again under the moonlight.
I listen to her reminisce and, while I’m happy for her, I bite my tongue. I also try not to gag because … Ted.
I wish I wasn’t this way.
My go-to response when things are going exceptionally better than the norm is to ask questions. My brain doesn’t relish in the sunniness of a situation; it pulls back the layers to find the darkness. If something seems too good to be true, it always is.
But as Libby’s voice sing-songs about the way Ted kissed her, I make a concerted attempt at overriding my default reaction. I close my mouth so I don’t suggest she guard her heart or tell her to be careful and, instead, coo like I’m falling in love right along with her.
Because that’s what friends do.
“I’m so happy for you guys,” I say as I shove away from the counter. “That sounds like the perfect night.”
“It was. I’m so happy for us too.”
I can hear her smile. It makes me happy. Not saying that Libby has had a hard life—she definitely had the better brother between my stepdad and her father—but she’s been married for four years, doesn’t have to work, and lives in this gorgeous mansion in an even prettier town.
It’s idyllic, really. She’s got it all together.
And not that I want this exact life, because I don’t. I want a job—a real career, someday. I want to get up in the morning and do something that requires wearing heels, which is random but true. I’d love to have kids, and if I get married, I want it to be a partnership with love and respect. So, while my idea of perfection isn’t exactly what Libby has, I hope to start getting my life put together too.
Even if it took me a lot longer to do.
“I’ll be out of here before you guys get back,” I say, grabbing the bottle of green-lidded cheese from the refrigerator. “My flight leaves next Saturday morning, and you guys get home Sunday. Right?”
“Yes. I hate that I’ll miss you.”
“I know,” I say, putting the cheese down. “But the flight I got was ridiculously cheaper and, besides, I don’t want Ted to come back and have me here and ruin your little re-romance. You’ll come home to a perfectly clean kitchen.”
She laughs. “I don’t need it perfect. Just … perfect.”
“One thing is for sure. This spaghetti is not perfect.”
I lift a scoop of it up in the air. The bottom is a bit dark at first glance. But if I turn it in the light just right, it doesn’t look half bad. I shrug because there’s nothing else I can do and fill a large Tupperware container.
“I’m shocked,” she jokes. “You sounded like you had the whole chef thing under control.”
“I …”
My voice trails off as a doorbell sounds through the house. It’s such a Libby sort of doorbell—very light and melodic. Almost chirpy.