his face, oddly disturbed by the sight.
“How’s the sorting going?” she asked, switching her basket from one hand to the other.
“I’ve finally made it to the kitchen.”
“Is this good or bad?”
“Let’s just say Aunt Marion must have attended a lot of Tupperware parties in her time.”
“Ow.”
“On the bright side, the women at the secondhand shop know me by name now.”
“Well, that’s something.”
He glanced toward the door. “I should keep moving. I left Strudel in the car. Always makes me feel like a bad parent.”
“I know what you mean. I’ll see you tonight.”
He didn’t move off immediately. Instead, he reached out and tweaked her beanie.
“Like your hat.” His cognac eyes glinted with mischief as he walked away.
She realized belatedly that she was standing in the aisle staring after him like an excited schoolgirl.
It’s called dignity, my dear. You might want to reacquaint yourself with the concept.
She turned back to the dairy case and grabbed a package of Brie and a round of Camembert. What the hell. She added a block of vintage cheddar for good measure, then worked her way up and down the aisles of the small store, occasionally catching glimpses of Oliver as he did the same. She heard him talking and laughing with the guy behind the deli counter, caught him brooding over the ice-cream freezer and wound up at the checkout three people ahead of him. She was acutely aware of him in her peripheral vision as she waited for the woman to ring up her purchases. She gave him a small, cheery wave as she collected her bags.
“Seven o’clock. Be there or be square,” he said.
“A fate worse than death.”
There was a bounce in her step as she carried her groceries to her car. Not because she thought his asking her over to dinner meant anything—she hadn’t been rusticating out here on the peninsula so long that she’d forgotten the subtleties of socializing with the opposite sex—but because she found him interesting and stimulating and good company. No more, no less.
Rather convincing argument if she did say so herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIX O’CLOCK FOUND Mackenzie dressed in her black jeans and a soft cashmere sweater with crossover ties that wrapped around her waist. She’d given in to vanity and was brushing mascara on when a knock sounded at the front door. Mr. Smith immediately bolted from the bathroom, his claws skittering on the floorboards.
“One of these days you’re going to ricochet up the hall like a pinball,” she called after him.
She could see a tall, broad silhouette in the glass panel as she approached and she lifted a hand to her hair. She hadn’t had a chance to repair the damage the beanie had caused yet. Plus, she’d applied mascara to only one eye.
Oh, well.
“Hey,” Oliver said when she swung the door open.
He was standing with one hand thrust deep into his jeans pocket, his posture stiff and uncomfortable. As though he was about to deliver bad news.
“Hi,” she said, frowning.
Was he here to cancel dinner? She was surprised by the thud of disappointment she felt. She’d really been looking forward to spending time with him again.
“I have a confession to make.” He sounded very serious.
“Okay. Should I brace myself? Will I need smelling salts?”
“I’m hoping it won’t be that dire.” He shuffled his feet, then cleared his throat. “When Brent and I went fishing as kids, he was the only one who was allowed to use the knife to clean and gut the fish.”
He smiled sheepishly. She stared at him, momentarily bemused. This was his big confession? Then she got it.
“You want to know if I know how to gut a fish?”
“Yeah. I was going to wing it, but there’s not a lot of fish there and if I stuff up it’ll be pizza for dinner.”
She smiled, inordinately charmed by his honesty. Most men she knew would have faked their way through the process rather than admit they needed assistance.
“I wish I could help, but I have never been fishing in my life,” she said.
“Ah.”
“But I have the next best thing to real-life experience. Hold on a second.”
She spun on her heel and strode to the living room. Thirty seconds later she was back, iPad in hand. She displayed it triumphantly.
“It’s called the internet. All the kids are using it. You ask it a question and someone, somewhere, knows the answer.”
“You think someone’s got a blog about gutting fish?” he asked, clearly skeptical.
“I bet there’s a blog about carving toenail clippings if you looked hard enough.”
She hit