The Knitter's Heartwish by Daisy Dexter Dobbs

Author:Daisy Dexter Dobbs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: friends to lovers, professor, dieter, close family, grandmother
Publisher: Department of Daydreams
Published: 2022-09-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

~<>~

“YOU’VE MADE tremendous progress since last week,” Drake said, taking a long look around the inside of the building Nevan owned. The entire first floor had been relegated to his popular pub, although it no longer looked like an eating and drinking establishment. Drake wasn’t well-versed in architecture or the building trades but it didn’t take an expert to recognize top quality workmanship in everything Nevan and Hud had done.

“You think so?” Nevan scratched his head as his uncertain gaze followed Drake’s. “Everywhere I look all I see is something else that has to be done.”

Drake knew it must be daunting for Nevan when he studied the cavernous space that used to house polished dark wood booths, tables and chairs, and an ornately carved bar. Nevan had taken great pains to create an atmosphere similar to the generations-old family-oriented pubs he’d visited on his trips to Ireland. To have most of that destroyed must be damn tough.

“What you’ve accomplished is nothing short of amazing. What do you do, eat, drink and sleep here while you’re working?”

“Pretty much,” Nevan admitted. “This place is my life, you know? Some men have a wife and kids they’re devoted to. I have a pub.” Smiling along with Nevan, Drake nodded in acknowledgement.

“Seamus Malone, my grandfather, the Irish one on my father’s side, used to say, ‘You’ll never plow a field by turning it over in your mind.’ It’s a good saying to remember when I’m feeling sorry for myself. So instead of whining and complaining about the sorry burned-out state of my pub, I’m plowing my field.” Nevan’s grin expanded. “My mother recently reminded me of the saying. I’m glad she did.”

“Astrid’s a wise woman,” Drake noted.

“She’s worried I’m not taking care of myself.” Nevan thumbed toward the large cooler on the floor a few feet away. “That’s filled with sandwiches, meatloaf, mashed potatoes—all my favorites...or so she thinks.” Nevan shook his head, chuckling in quiet amusement.

“I thought you liked your mom’s cooking. I’ve liked everything Astrid’s made,” Drake said honestly.

“I do.” One shoulder hiked in a shrug. “As long as she sticks to her traditional Norwegian cooking or basic American dishes. I like most of her baking too. It’s when she ventures beyond the norm into, say, Italian, Mexican, or Asian dishes, that we Malone siblings live in fear of a dinner invitation.”

Drake winced. “That bad?”

“You have no idea.” With a slow nod, Nevan said, “Never lie to your Norwegian mother, telling her you like something she makes because you don’t want to hurt her feelings. Inside that chest,” he pointed again, “sits frozen containers of Mom’s Norwegian-style chili con carne made with her homemade smoked lamb sausage and rice instead of beans. Her Lillehammer-style lasagna made with Norwegian brown cheese in place of mozzarella and codfish balls instead of ground beef.” Nevan cringed. “And lest we forget, there’s Mom’s infamous pickled herring mac and cheese.”

“Whoa...” Drake couldn’t help shuddering. Twice. “You’re serious?”

“Unfortunately.” Nevan’s candid shudder mirrored Drake’s. “Lesson learned.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever had—or want to have—the, um, pleasure of trying any of those meals.

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