Evie seemed defensive. She lifted the apron off her neck and over her head. “I’m just not expecting anything to arrive today.”
Bree took one look at her panicked roommate. She’d been watching them bumble along for months. Last week she had decided to step in. It was time to assist, to intervene in this romantic plateau.
“What could it be then? If I didn’t order anything, and you never order anything . . . Where’s my lipstick? And my lashes?” She started patting down her face. “And the cookies! I didn’t have time to make the cookies—” Evie was clutching her chest.
“Calm down, Evie,” Bree said, taking her by the shoulders.
“I told him last time about the cookies. I said I’d make them—”
“The man doesn’t need any cookies. He isn’t Santa—”
“But—”
The doorbell rang, loud and clear, and they both shut their mouths at once.
Evie’s eyes roved around the room and landed on the tube of bright red lipstick sitting on the windowsill.
The doorbell rang again.
She took a step toward the lipstick, and Bree grabbed her by the back of the shirt and turned her around. “You look great,” she whispered. She gave her a little shove toward the knob. “Now go get ’im.”
Evie approached the door like a sloth. To move things along, Bree gave the knob a twist and darted behind the door. She yanked it open, exposing Evie batting her lashes.
Bree tiptoed backward toward the window and inched the curtain back to see through.
Gerald held a five-foot-long package. “Mornin’, Evie,” he said, his voice more gravelly than usual.
She pinked.
“Mornin’, Gerald. That’s . . . quite a package you got there.”
“I was about to say that myself. I couldn’t help but notice the label on the box—” He looked down at the Quest logo stamped along one side. “So, you got a fishing reel after all.” He paused, then awkwardly placed the box in her arms.
When he stepped back again, he rubbed the back of his neck. “It was just . . . nice to see you ended up getting one . . . after all. After we talked about it that one day . . .”
“A fishing pole?” Evie said, surprise clear in her voice as she looked at the illustration of the rod on the cardboard box.
Bree coughed discreetly.
Evie jerked her head to Bree. Had Evie penciled in her eyebrows properly, everyone would’ve seen them fly to the sky. “Oh yes! The fishing reel! For trout fishing. Yes, indeedy. I did buy that.” She clutched the box to her chest. “Because I want to fish. So badly.”
They stood silent for a moment, Gerald rubbing the back of his neck while it turned red, and Evie batting her lashes at him at 90 miles per hour.
Good grief.
Bree had put the bait in their hands. In their literal hands. All the two of them had to do was take the next step.
Say it.
Bree squinted through the window, willing Gerald to say the words.
Seconds ticked by.
C’mon, man, say it.
SAY. IT.
Bree exhaled and pushed herself off the window. She walked to the stairs, then loudly hopped off the bottom step and marched through the living room like she hadn’t a care in the world. Halfway through, she stopped as though noticing the two of them for the first time. Her leg halted in the air, and she pivoted toward them.
“Oh? What’s that, Evie? Looks like a . . . fishing pole?” Bree set her hands on her hips. Put on her serious face. “Evie, have you got someone to show you how to fish? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going out to the Holston all alone, when you can’t swim—”
“You can’t swim?” Gerald interjected.
“Of course I can swim—I’m just—” Evie began.
“I can take you out sometime,” Gerald said, quick as a beat and then halting as though realizing what he’d said. “I’d just . . . uh . . . I’d hate to see a lady such as yourself out there, stuck in high water.”
Bree nodded, fingers pressed to her lips. “But can I trust that you will keep my dear, dear friend Evie safe?”
“Oh.” Gerald was nodding. “The safest.”
“I don’t know,” Bree said. She folded her arms across her chest. “Maybe you ought to get some good swimming lessons under your belt first, Evie.”
“Lessons? Oh, well . . .” Gerald had his hat off now and was playing with it in his hands. “I don’t mean to puff myself up, ’course, but I did happen to be on the swim