My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade

else . . .”
    â€œNo. You’ll do.” She heard a distinct grinding of teeth before he hung up.
    Kate felt a pang of pity. A relationship with Velma guaranteed him a future of teeth grinding. Morty’d go down to the grave with a mouthful of nubs.

    Kate walked into the kitchen at dinnertime that night to find Gran and Matt in a heated argument over aprons. She paused in the doorway, watching, as Gran brandished an apron in her ring-encrusted fingers. It was a white canvas number, with a loop for the neck and two dangling ties to secure behind the back. “Matt, I’m telling you that you need to put this on.”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œYou’re about to use an electric handheld mixer,” Gran gestured to the appliance already plugged in and waiting on the countertop, “and it’s going to get messy.”
    Matt’s hard features took on a defiant cast. “Look, Beverly, I’ll cook but I am not going to wear an apron .”
    â€œYour sweater is cashmere!”
    He shrugged.
    â€œCashmere!”
    â€œI’d rather throw it away after this,” he motioned toward the apron, “than wear that.”
    Gran glared at him as if he’d insulted her.
    He returned her glare, not backing down an inch.
    â€œMatthew Jarreau! If I knew your middle name, I’d use it!”
    Still nothing. He set his mouth in an endearingly mulish line.
    They faced off for several charged seconds before Gran hefted an enormous sigh, shook her head, and went to hang the apron on its peg in the pantry. “Men!”
    Matt glanced at Kate.
    â€œNo fair of you to start the fun without me,” she said.
    He grunted, pushed up the sleeves of his beige sweater, and started washing his hands.
    Gran took up her position at the counter, her expression disgruntled. “I didn’t think your masculinity could be so easily threatened.”
    â€œYou thought wrong.” He dried his hands with a dish towel. “It’s David.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    He lifted one eyebrow. “My middle name.”
    â€œMatthew David Jarreau?” she asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, good.” She gave a haughty sniff. “The next time I need to use it, I will.”
    One side of his lips twitched upward, and just that quickly, animosity disappeared and contentment hummed through the kitchen as the two of them launched into their cooking lesson.

    Kate had dressed in clothes appropriate for treading through the detonation site of a nuclear bomb. She’d tugged on plastic gloves. She’d mixed chemicals like a scientist. And she’d just shoveled an appropriate amount of something called color remover onto something called a tint brush .
    Operation Correct-Morty’s-Hair-Dye-Blunder was about to commence.
    The object of her charity was sitting on a vinyl chair in the center of his kitchen, eyeing her grumpily.
    She wondered if he’d take offense if she snapped on a pair of goggles and a gas mask.
    â€œIs it ready?” he asked.
    â€œReady.” Kate approached him, centered herself directly behind him, and shellacked the first brushful of goo onto the crown of his head. Whatever unseen “personal space” boundaries they’d had between them evaporated. Discomfort crashed over Kate and she paused momentarily, deeply tempted to pound out the back door at a dead sprint.
    Massages , she reminded herself. Facials. Manicures. Spa pedicures! She dove in grimly with both plastic-covered hands, meticulously raking the goo through his hair.
    â€œSo,” Morty said, “how about those Dallas Cowboys?”
    Kate laughed. The tension began to deflate. “How about them.”
    â€œThey won their preseason games and now they’re three and one. They’re up against the Eagles, though, on Sunday. . . .”
    He continued chatting about football, and Kate continued with the goo and the brush. Like many things in life that