Desert Willow by Patricia Beal

Author:Patricia Beal [Beal, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Candlelight Romance
Published: 2020-02-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Another text message. Good grief.

Clara put her heavy Dollar General bags on the kitchen counter and checked her phone.

Scott again. Of course.

She had to tell him something, so he would stop texting. Ignoring him wasn’t doing the trick. She blew out her breath.

LISTEN, I HAD NO IDEA THAT YOU WERE HERE. I’M JUST IN TOWN TAKING CARE OF SOME FAMILY BUSINESS. LET’S JUST LEAVE THE PAST IN THE PAST. NO HARD FEELINGS, OKAY?

There. She flopped into the closest chair and studied her purchases. Both her hands still hurt from walking more than a block with four heavy bags.

Scott wasn’t the only one who’d texted her. Andrew had messaged too. His text had come in before eight a.m.—probably right after PT, a soldier’s daily physical training that started religiously at six-thirty a.m., after leadership meetings. After exchanging a couple of notes, she’d agreed to cook dinner for him at her place—her borrowed place.

Soon after that, Scott began texting too. But he was too late. Too late by a couple of years. Her phone was quiet now. Good.

What was for lunch? Cereal? Why not? Oats always hit the spot. That would be quick, and then she could start thinking about dinner.

The pocket-sized cookbook she’d grabbed at the store would do. Yes, she was a sucker for impulse buys. She’d looked at every page and found two dishes that were viable without having to go to a real grocery store. She’d chosen bacon and Alfredo on bowtie pasta recipe.

Clara put the groceries away and enjoyed her bowl of cold cereal. There couldn’t be a better lunch on a hot Texas day. No way.

Her chin rested on her palm as she studied the recipe one more time. The garlic bread could stay in the freezer until almost dinner time, right? She could do this. What could possibly go wrong? It was pasta.

But what if she messed it all up? It was a gas stove. Would that make a difference? She should have learned to cook years ago. She, a grown woman, was stressing over frozen bread and pasta. Pathetic.

Her nervous fingers played with the new containers of spices and herbs she’d placed on the counter. Her borrowed kitchen looked like a regular kitchen now—full of potential, some food, and the first dirty dishes. Life. How many meals would she end up cooking there? She clicked open the basil container and let the dried leaves share their strong, sweet smell with her.

Clara studied the kitchen, her culinary imagination running free. Pizzas, breads, cookies, cupcakes—because happiness wasn’t happiness without cupcakes, right?

The roses Andrew had helped her transport from the hotel decorated the counter and were more fragrant than ever. But wait—a couple of them had begun bowing down, their splendor fading. A sad reminder.

The kitchen was borrowed. The apartment temporary. El Paso wasn’t her reality. It wasn’t her life. Clara put away the basil and her joy. Soon she would be back in Cincinnati, a college grad without a job.

She shook her head and lifted her shoulders, but that hurt.

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