my infernal optimism (that Lily sometimes despised) that I have no doubt as to your mutual feelings? I haven’t doubted since that first afternoon, and yet I feel like I should. It seems unnatural to be so certain—so full of myself. But I am. I can see in your eyes, the way you reach for me, the way you flirt with me. We have something unique and, forgive the pathetic sappiness of the word, precious. I can’t risk losing it, and I can’t commit to keeping it. What will we do?
How can I ensure that you ARE Cara mia?
Jonafan
She dropped the pages in her lap, stunned. For a man who avoided vocal conversation, he sure could unburden his heart when he wanted to.
Chapter Eight
The doorbell was the last thing Cara expected the following morning. She wrapped her robe around her tighter, cinched the sash, and glanced in the fridge to make sure she had syrup in the house. Her nearest neighbor had a habit of running out mid waffle making. However, her neighbor wasn’t at the door. She opened it, prepared to force the impatience from her face with a smile, to find Jonathan standing there.
“What—”
Smiling, he held up a bakery box and a grocery sack. “I come bearing coffee, fruit, and muffins. I was up, the kids were off with Mom, so I thought; why not come now and take you to work?”
“Oh!” She didn’t know what to say. Feeling very disheveled with her hair wet and unbrushed, wearing a ratty old bathrobe, and bare toes, Cara welcomed him into the house, absently tugging her hair as she did.
He fixed them plates and carried them to the couch where she sat with her Bible open to the passage du jour. “Where are you today?” One glance and he grinned. “Still in Solomon, eh? That’s my favorite chapter.”
“Oh, be quiet. No one should be so chipper this early in the morning.” Her acceptance of his proffered coffee , though less than gracious, was more than comical. Cara curled up in the corner of her couch, clutching the cup as though her lifeline to reality. With a roll of her eyes that she knew many found charming on the rare times they saw it, she sighed. “I do not look adorable. My hair’s a drippy mess, I’m covered by the rattiest thing I own—”
“Which you love—”
“Which I love,” she agreed, continuing without a pause. “I have no idea what I’m wearing to work today, and you on the other hand…” The eyes rolled again, bringing another satisfied smile to Jonathan’s face. “Look too good for your, no my, own good.”
“Thank you.”
Jonathan passed a toothpick and pointed at the plate. “Eat.”
“You’re so eloquent when you want to be. From one word, I can deduce that you’re afraid I’ll try to subsist on Slim-Fast today, so you’re going to ensure I eat more. That’s really impressive.”
The smirk on Jonathan’s face couldn’t be interpreted as anything less than utter satisfaction. Frustrated, she stabbed honeydew melon, a red grape, and strawberry with her toothpick and ate them in one bite. Her attempt at mockery failed as the flavors tantalized her taste buds. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped as she stabbed the watermelon left on her plate.
“Good?”
“You know you are.” She winked at his laughter. There was something very comfortable about a quiet breakfast with Jonathan. “Do you know what I realized last night? I mean, I think I knew it but had never put it into words—even in thought.”
“What?”
“You’re not like most people who don’t talk. I mean, I’ve met people who took time to formulate their thoughts, spoke little but had a lot to say when they did. I’ve met people who didn’t like to talk and didn’t like to listen to others talk either, and of course I’ve met people whose mouths run like ticker tape during a bull market—kind of like me this morning. However, I’ve never met anyone who was all of those and more. You just let people know, by your demeanor, what you want. I know if you’re feeling like talking, if
How can I ensure that you ARE Cara mia?
Jonafan
She dropped the pages in her lap, stunned. For a man who avoided vocal conversation, he sure could unburden his heart when he wanted to.
Chapter Eight
The doorbell was the last thing Cara expected the following morning. She wrapped her robe around her tighter, cinched the sash, and glanced in the fridge to make sure she had syrup in the house. Her nearest neighbor had a habit of running out mid waffle making. However, her neighbor wasn’t at the door. She opened it, prepared to force the impatience from her face with a smile, to find Jonathan standing there.
“What—”
Smiling, he held up a bakery box and a grocery sack. “I come bearing coffee, fruit, and muffins. I was up, the kids were off with Mom, so I thought; why not come now and take you to work?”
“Oh!” She didn’t know what to say. Feeling very disheveled with her hair wet and unbrushed, wearing a ratty old bathrobe, and bare toes, Cara welcomed him into the house, absently tugging her hair as she did.
He fixed them plates and carried them to the couch where she sat with her Bible open to the passage du jour. “Where are you today?” One glance and he grinned. “Still in Solomon, eh? That’s my favorite chapter.”
“Oh, be quiet. No one should be so chipper this early in the morning.” Her acceptance of his proffered coffee , though less than gracious, was more than comical. Cara curled up in the corner of her couch, clutching the cup as though her lifeline to reality. With a roll of her eyes that she knew many found charming on the rare times they saw it, she sighed. “I do not look adorable. My hair’s a drippy mess, I’m covered by the rattiest thing I own—”
“Which you love—”
“Which I love,” she agreed, continuing without a pause. “I have no idea what I’m wearing to work today, and you on the other hand…” The eyes rolled again, bringing another satisfied smile to Jonathan’s face. “Look too good for your, no my, own good.”
“Thank you.”
Jonathan passed a toothpick and pointed at the plate. “Eat.”
“You’re so eloquent when you want to be. From one word, I can deduce that you’re afraid I’ll try to subsist on Slim-Fast today, so you’re going to ensure I eat more. That’s really impressive.”
The smirk on Jonathan’s face couldn’t be interpreted as anything less than utter satisfaction. Frustrated, she stabbed honeydew melon, a red grape, and strawberry with her toothpick and ate them in one bite. Her attempt at mockery failed as the flavors tantalized her taste buds. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped as she stabbed the watermelon left on her plate.
“Good?”
“You know you are.” She winked at his laughter. There was something very comfortable about a quiet breakfast with Jonathan. “Do you know what I realized last night? I mean, I think I knew it but had never put it into words—even in thought.”
“What?”
“You’re not like most people who don’t talk. I mean, I’ve met people who took time to formulate their thoughts, spoke little but had a lot to say when they did. I’ve met people who didn’t like to talk and didn’t like to listen to others talk either, and of course I’ve met people whose mouths run like ticker tape during a bull market—kind of like me this morning. However, I’ve never met anyone who was all of those and more. You just let people know, by your demeanor, what you want. I know if you’re feeling like talking, if
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