"Baby, as much as I'm fine with you staring at my sexy ass all day," Mark said, making me jerk back out of my thoughts to find him looking at me as he loaded a couple bags into the cart. He had somehow loaded them up onto the belt, had them rung up, and bagged them without me noticing. "We got to get going," he added when I just kept standing there gawking at him like some psycho.
"Right," I said as he pulled the cart and moved out of the lane so I could follow.
I chanced a look at the cashier who gave me a knowing look that made me feel slightly less awkward and ridiculous. We had all been struck dumb by an attractive, charming man before. She knew the drill.
"So what are you making?" I asked as the silence stretched a little too long on the walk back to the truck.
"Steak, green beans, steak fries. What are you making?"
"Apple flowers."
"Apple flowers?" he repeated as he started loading the groceries up.
"You cut a strip of puff pastry, line it with some butter and cinnamon then lay sliced apples in it, roll it up, and cook them in a cupcake sheet. They cook and look like flowers. Oh, and they're delicious."
It was right about then too that I realized I hadn't made apple flowers since my mom passed. My brothers had asked me countless times, but that had always been my mothers 'cheer up, Scotti' treat she made when I had a crummy day. It always hurt too much to think about making them. Why then didn't I even give it a second thought about making it for Mark? A practical stranger?
"Honey, you alright?" Mark asked, looking down at me with furrowed brows and worried eyes. "You're pale as a fucking sheet all a sudden."
"Ah, yeah. Sorry. Just must be hungry," I lied. I had, instead, had some weird, major life realization and it was settling uneasily inside, and I didn't know what to think of that. But that was just a tad too much information for a first date.
"Well, good thing I am about to feed you then," he said, reaching out to take my arm, watching me like I might faint, as he led me to my door and helped me in before disappearing with the cart. You had to like a man who brought the cart back to the return.
So I wasn't exactly lying when I told him I half-expected his place to be a bit like a frat house. And by that, I meant nothing soft, nothing decorative, everything necessary or, in the case of electronics, unnecessary but in over-abundance.
As for the structure itself, I had him pegged for an apartment guy. Why? Because it was low maintenance. Because you could leave it and take off on a wild hair at any point in time without worrying about it. Because, aside from a one-year contract, it was low on the commitment.
What I definitely did not have planned was a pretty, but worn-down craftsman house situated on a chunk of land that had to be closing in on two acres. It was a charming deep blue structure with white rafters and brackets, all the paint in desperate need of a refresher, with a small front porch under a deeply overhanging roofline, large tapered, square columns supporting the roof, double-hung windows, and a single dormer.
"Not exactly a frat house, huh?"
"Well, you might not have any Greek letters, but I am reserving my judgment until I see the inside."
"Fair enough. Parts are still under construction, but the living and kitchen area are all done. This place was almost falling down when I bought it. It's been a lot of fucking work."
I reached for a couple of the bags. "Why not get one that needed less work?"
"Fucking beautiful little craftsman," he said as we walked up the path, the bricks half-disappeared beneath the ground. "On this piece of land? Developers would have come in and knocked this down to build more goddamn ugly, characterless townhouses. Couldn't let that happen. Besides, this is what I do."
"What is what you do?" I asked as we stepped on the porch and he reached to unlock the door.
"Construction."
"I thought you were a loanshark," I said, grimacing a little at how callous that sort of sounded.
"I am. But we all have legit businesses. Shane with his gym and his apartment building. My Pops has a bar. Ryan has a bunch of boring shit. I have a construction company and lawn service. Shit that involves working with my hands. It was nice for a change to be able to reap the benefits of all the work. Come on," he invited, pushing the door open and waiting for me to pass in.
Roots were things I tried to not give a lot of thought to. But as I stepped into Mark's lovingly restored living room, I felt a pull inside I hadn't let myself feel in a long, long while. The hardwood on the floors was wide, and an assortment of all different kinds of seemingly reclaimed woods, all the flaws still intact, giving the whole space a very homey vibe. The walls were a warm, inviting green. The sectional was deep brown. The coffee table was scuffed like many had rested their boots there at some time or another. The TV, well, it was huge. What man didn't have a huge TV?