Page 150 of Just One More Thing

Then the timer goes off.

The damn timer.

She jerks back with a startled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan while I rest my forehead against hers, trying to remember how kitchens work.

I finally step back and kill the burner before we accidentally replay salmon night.

We carry our bowls outside to the small table on the porch while the sky fades from orange to that soft pink that never lasts long enough.

No candles. No setup. Just dinner and wine and Hank sprawled nearby, hoping one of us drops a shrimp.

Mo takes a bite and closes her eyes. “That’s good.”

She tears off a piece of bread and drags it through the sauce. Then she glances up and catches me looking at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I was.” I look out toward the dock lights blinking on one by one across the water before I look back at her.

“You fit here,” I say quietly.

The words settle between us.

Her fingers still around the piece of bread.

Then she looks out toward the bay. “That’s not a nice thing to say to somebody with commitment issues.”

I laugh. “At least you know yourself.”

“Oh, painfully.”

I set my fork down. “You know I’m not trying to?—“

“I know.” Her voice softens. “I know.”

She takes another bite, then points her fork at me. “Also, for the record, this pasta is good because of me.”

“How do you figure?”

“I provided a valuable service.”

“What service?”

“Preventing you from turning dinner into a fire hazard.”

“Thank you for servicing me.”

She chokes on a laugh and grabs her wine while I grin and lean back in my chair. Her foot’s tucked underneath her. Mine stretches out beneath the table until the side of my bare foot finds her. Neither of us moves away.

Sitting here with her in the fading light, I let myself imagine this as a beginning instead of borrowed time. Because borrowed time isn’t supposed to feel this natural.

Later, after the bowls are empty and the sky’s gone dark, we eat butter pecan ice cream, both of us “hmmming” as we pass the spoon and carton between us.

A cooler breeze drifts in off the water now.

Mo disappears inside for a minute. When she comes back out, she’s wearing one of my sweatshirts.