Page 99 of Meet Cute Reboot
“Not with Betsy wandering the halls.”
“Oh. True. We’re on ghost watch tonight.”
We head to his SUV and climb in.
“Maybe dinner will perk you up,” he continues as we’re driving, “and a glass of wine.”
“No way.” I slice my hands at the air.
Luke laughs. He grabs my hand. “I’m kidding. No wine tonight. Water only.”
“Juice?”
“I have water. And water. If you want something else, we can pop into a gas station.”
“Water is good,” I sigh. Under my breath, I tag on: “When it’s not full of alligators.”
Luke gives my hand a squeeze. I expect him to let go, but he keeps his hand wrapped around mine the entire drive home. When we reach his house, Korg bounds out of the car and prances around the front yard.
“He’s going to smell like dirty gym socks until I give him a bath,” he says as we enter the kitchen.
I look down at the dog. “Ditto, Korg.”
We agree that Luke will give Korg a quick bath while I shower in the upstairs bathroom. I tell him there will be nothing “quick” about my shower—it’s my mini-vacation after all. He informs me I’m only limited by the size of his water heater. I tell him that sounds like a metaphor for life and leave him looking befuddled at the bottom of the stairs.
The bathroom is large but outdated with a sunken garden tub and an enclosed shower—its off-white fiberglass surface dulledby years of harsh chemicals and scrubbing. The cramped size and overall state of the shower convince me a bath is in order. I soak my tired muscles for a good twenty minutes before pulling out my travel-size shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner.
I dry off using one of the lush, white towels Luke graciously left next to the sink before my arrival. I imagine him hastily running through Kohls piling towels, bedding, and throw pillows into the cloth shopping cart to make sure I feel like a proper guest in his dated, but still grand home.
Luke is clanging in the kitchen when I descend the steps. I’m wearing my go-to lazy day outfit: a hoodie and joggers. I splurged on this set, though. It’s velvet in a pleasing shade of lavender with white athletic stripes down the arms and legs.
“Hey, Sporty Spice,” Luke says when I enter the kitchen.
“You know it.”
“Did you rinse off all the marsh muck?”
“I did. Did you?”
“I took a quick shower so I wouldn’t use all your hot water.”
“Thanks.” I smile and take a seat opposite him at the island.
Luke pulls out a cutting board and slides a wooden bowl full of tomatoes toward his workspace. He’s about to slice into a juicy beefsteak tomato when I interrupt him.
“Wait.” I eye the pot of boiling water and the opened box of spaghetti noodles. “Are you making spaghetti?”
Luke’s chef knife hovers over the doomed tomato. “Um. Yes?”
“No, no, no.” I swing around the island and grab the tomato from him.
“Hey,” he balks.
“Have you ever made spaghetti sauce before?”
“Sure. You unscrew the lid, pour it into the skillet, and let it simmer for ten minutes.”
I bump him out of the way with my hip. “Homemade spaghetti sauce requires a little more attention. You have to remove the skins.”