Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(54)

It's her biggest eye roll yet.





Now that I’m pretty much healthy, I feel like I need to get reacquainted with Isaac’s place. Four days confined to a bed has made me feel like a newcomer again.

I take a turn through his big, beautiful white kitchen. My fingers trail along the stainless-steel fridge, the island made of black wood, the marble countertops I needed so badly the first night I was sick. Part of me wants to spill red juice, just to see what it would look like in its marred perfection. The other part of me wants to never touch anything.

I'm in the pantry, rifling through boxes of crackers and bags of chips, when Isaac walks up behind me. He reaches over my head and pulls down a basket of oranges. I follow him to the counter and watch him peel one.

"You want?" He offers it to me.

I take it from his outstretched hand.

He peels a second orange and pops a segment into his mouth. I watch, transfixed. Something about the way Isaac chews is so manly. It's not annoying or gross. Shouldn't chewing be gross? Why isn't it for Isaac?

“Are you going to eat your orange?" He points at the fruit in my palm.

I look down at it. “I don't want to get any juice on your countertops. They're so..." I look around at them. “Clean."

He grabs a small plate from the cupboard and slips it under my hand.

“Not white?" I drop the orange onto the navy-blue plate and pull it apart.

“Huh?" Isaac grabs a bottle of red wine and pulls the cork.

“The plate. It's not white. Every time we’ve eaten, it’s been on something white. I thought maybe white is your thing."

His back is to me as he takes two glasses from the cabinet, but I see his head shake.

“Not my thing." He turns around, meets my eyes, and looks back down.

“Do you miss her?”

“No. Not like I should, anyway.” He shakes his head, like he’s confused about something. “We’d known each other forever, and I think I proposed because it seemed like that was what I was supposed to do. I was taking a next step on a path that had ended.” He shrugs. “But that’s over now.”

When he places my wine in front of me, I grab the glass and take a big drink.

“How did Claire go to sleep?" I ask. As excited as I was to be part of her nighttime routine again, I thought it prudent to wait one more day to make sure my illness is completely gone. I feel bad I haven't been well enough to help her to sleep. I was trying so hard to do everything just like I did when we were living with my dad, right down to the Eskimo kisses and twirly fingers at the door. I like to think my substitute can’t possibly do it as well as I can.

“She wanted a Natalie story."

My eyes fly open. Natalie story? From someone other than me?

“Oh, really?" I try to play it cool.

“Yep. I'm getting pretty good at them." Isaac blows on his fingernails and wipes them on the front of his shirt.

I raise a palm. “All right, all right. Cool your jets. Starting tomorrow I can resume the Natalie stories."

Isaac winces. “I don't think so. Claire said my elephant noises are better than yours."

I make a face. “What? No, no, no. My Morabi is spot on." I’ve got the sounds of Natalie’s pet elephant down, no question.

“Then do it."

“Um, no." I wouldn't be caught dead making elephant sounds in front of Isaac.

Isaac doesn't share my embarrassment. He raises an arm to his nose so it sticks straight out and up. A trumpeting noise comes from his throat, loud and frighteningly good.

I bend over and hold my stomach, the laughter competing for gulps of air. When I straighten, Isaac's twinkling eyes are on me.

“Do you want to hear an ugly truth?" he asks.

My laughter fades. “Are you finally going to tell me why you were in the bar that night?"

Something passes through his eyes, dulling their glimmer a fraction. “No.” He goes to a lower cabinet and pulls it open, but I can't see what's in it because his body blocks my view. “My ugly truth is that I don't care for red wine."

I lean on the counter and press my chin to an open palm. “Then what do you like to drink, Dr. Cordova?"

He reaches into the cabinet. “Tequila.” He comes away proudly holding up a bottle.

“Really?"

He laughs. “Well, yes. I am Mexican."

“Are you stereotyping yourself?"

“I guess. You want?" His eyes hold hope. He wants me to like what he likes.

“I've never had tequila." I know he's going to think I'm from another planet. Who has never had tequila?

“You're kidding?" He's excited now, grabbing a lime from the basket with the oranges and tossing it on the cutting board.

I shake my head. “I'm not."

“Well, then, I'm going to teach you something."

He cuts the lime into quarters and grabs a container of salt from a cabinet.

“Nope. No way." I shake my head. I know what he's doing.

“Fine. If you're happy with that boring red wine. Be my guest." He laughs. “Or my roommate. Be my roommate."

He rubs a lime on one quarter of the rim of the shot glass, rolls the glass around in the salt, and pours in the tequila. Eyes on me, he takes the shot and, without wincing, brings the lime to his mouth for a bite.