When in Rome(76)
“Double bullshit.”
I sigh and look at the stack of pancakes. “I think I’m in trouble.”
“Bingo. There it is. So do you think you two can—” Whatever James was going to ask gets cut off when Amelia flies back through the front door, slightly out of breath and whirling into the kitchen.
“I forgot to get the biscuits out!” She slams down the oven door, hair flying around her shoulders, and cheeks flushed from the full-tilt sprint she must have done from my house back over here. Her eyes light up when she sees them. “Come out of there, my little biscuit-angel-babies. You’re too wholesome to burn like your evil pancake cousins over there.” Amelia peeks over her shoulder with a mischievous grin in my direction. “And yes, I did ruin another batch of pancakes and I don’t need any comments from the snooty peanut gallery about it, m’kay? I can perform on a stage in five-inch high heels for three solid hours, simultaneously dancing and singing in front of thousands of people, but I can’t make a freaking batch of pancakes. Absurd. Inexcusable, really. But that’s okay because now I can make BISCUITS AND GRAVY.” She grins from ear to ear. “I’m so country now I don’t hear my own voice in my head, it’s just Reese Witherspoon and Dolly Parton talking in there.”
She continues on babbling to herself like I’ve come to realize she often does, but I’m not totally listening. I’m focusing on how she’s wearing my sweatshirt again. How the image of any other woman wearing that sweatshirt will never compare to the sight of it draped over Amelia. She definitely has to take it with her when she goes. Or I’ll have to burn it. Give it a Viking’s funeral and send it down the lake in flames.
When I finally glance up, James is staring at me with a smug smile. He runs his thumb across his neck in the universal symbol of you’re a dead man.
Chapter 30
Amelia
“Oh stop, it’s not that bad!” I rest my elbows on the table and point my empty fork at Madison across the table.
Madison wraps her hand around her throat and gags after taking a bite from one of the pancakes I made. She mouths the word water like she’s been in the Sahara Desert for thirty-five years. I grab an uneaten biscuit and throw it at her head.
She grabs the biscuit from her lap and takes a big bite. “The biscuits are good. Your pancakes, however, are inedible.” A big smile wraps around her mouthful.
“That’s because the biscuits were from a can,” James offers unhelpfully from down the table.
I gasp in mock outrage and look daggers at him. “You can’t just out my biscuits like that!”
Emily laughs. “Hate to burst your bubble but we all took one bite of those biscuits and knew you didn’t make them.”
“So rude! Annie, tell them my pancakes weren’t that bad.”
My sweet Annie presses her lips together with an apologetic smile. She says nothing. I drop my head into my hands, laughing and feeling my own heated skin on my face. I’ve had two glasses of red wine, and red wine always makes my cheeks pink. Well, that and the table roasting. But I love it. We’re all sitting on James’s back porch, eating and drinking. I’m free and untethered here surrounded by these people. All day I’ve felt like singing—something I haven’t felt like doing in a long time.
The sun set an hour ago after painting the sky in a dusky pink and orange sunset, and now the warm string lights around the edges of the screened-in porch cast a thematic glow on the evening. Beyond this porch are hundreds of acres of vegetable crops, barns, and greenhouses. I know because James gave me the full tour—and although I would have rather spent the day with Noah, I enjoyed every second of my new friendship with James.
I still can’t believe I’m here with these people. These people who like me enough to poke fun at me. To acknowledge when I’m bad at something. To let me fail and enjoy the hell out of it over and over again.
And then the other reason my cheeks are pink is sitting down at the foot of the table to my right. Noah. I can hardly think of his name without breaking out in chill bumps. Just having him in the same vicinity as me after that kiss has my skin so hot I could fry bacon on it. I have been studiously avoiding glancing at him tonight because I don’t trust myself to look in his evergreen eyes and not think of his hands on me. Of his smile. Of the feel of his laugh.
I’ll blurt to everyone that I caught feelings, and then his sisters will be upset because we just talked about how it would be best if I didn’t get romantically involved with him. But now I have and all I can see is that still frame of Gregory Peck’s downcast face at the end of Roman Holiday. Is that what Noah will look like when I leave? Maybe I’m being presumptuous. Maybe his life will keep moving and he won’t miss a beat. Maybe it was just a kiss for him and it won’t leave him with a completely gutted, hollowed-out sort of feeling like it has me.
I feel his eyes on me now and it’s agony not to look at him. I need a reason to get out from under his gaze, so I set down my now empty wineglass and stand. “James, is that piano in your living room in working condition?” My stomach flutters. Because the truth is, I’ve been dying to play piano all day, ever since I got here this morning and noticed it. I’m also a little nervous to play it because it feels like testing out a leg after removing a cast. When I put my weight on it, will I feel that old sharp pain or will it have healed?