Perfect for Me by Claudia Burgoa

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hazel

You don’t have to fit into someone’s mold to be loved. ― Scott Everhart.

My entire bodyis on fire. His eyes concentrate on my lips. He’s right. Some things don’t change, and we know so much about each other. I watch him and wait for his next move. My gut tightens with anticipation, expecting more words, a caress … Or a deep kiss.

Do I want to kiss him?

My lips crave that touch. A part of me always wanted more. My legs shake, and I want to run away. I hate the uncertainty. I’m too old for this shit. Deep breaths, Hazel. No one is going to kiss you.

Why am I so afraid of his affection?

Years ago, I yearned to have him close. I hated losing him. My heart hurt so much. His eyes radiate tenderness. I break the connection between us, glancing around the house one more time. The table is set. The colorful walls make my place feel homey, like the way he used to make me feel. He’s always going out of his way to make sure I’m okay. To protect me. And I see him. His eyes are the color of fog. I’m reminded why gray calms my soul. It’s because I feel safe that I surround myself with that color.

When I move my eyes to meet his. I notice the pain in his gray orbs, it squeezes my heart.

What can I do to make everything better for him?

Stop!I order myself.

I’m done trying to fix everyone’s lives so they can be happy while I’m stuck in a bottomless pit of despair. It brings me joy, but at the end of the day, my heart remains hollow.

“Dinner?” he asks, walking toward the dining table.

Moving my eyes to the table, I spot them. An arrangement of deep red tropical flowers. How does Elliot know my new love for them?

“I bet you’re hungry and in need of a homemade meal.”

My heart stops when I pull the card from the flower arrangement on top of the dining table.

I miss Costa Rica.

SDE

Me too, I think as I close my eyes, wishing Scott was closer.

The thump-thump of my heart is quick and desperate. Lifting my arm, I reach for the vase, pulling it toward me. Smelling their exquisite fragrance, I’m transported to our time together. Although I dealt with one of the most painful moments of my life, Scott made everything manageable. He’s not my savior; he’s the rock I can lean on when things are rough.

“Everything all right?” Elliot asks.

“Uh-huh. Thank you for receiving the flowers.” I smile, tipping my head toward the vase as I place them back on the table.

“There’s more to him isn’t there?” Elliot stares at me, frozen. His eyes concentrate on mine. Is he breathing?

“Him?” I scrunch my nose. “You mean Scott.”

He nods as he glares at the flowers without blinking.

“Scott has many layers, so yes, there’s so much more to him.”

“I mean—”

The knock on the door breaks our conversation and the thick tension surrounding us.

“Beesley, open the door,” Fitz demands.

“Or not, I can take it apart,” Harrison offers. ”It’ll be fun.”

“Coming! Fitz, keep your brother out of trouble,” I respond, almost running to the door.

“Huh?” Fitz looks around, handing me the bag he carries and admiring the living room. “New bookcases?”

“Nice wood,” he says, turning to Elliot and then the bookcase. “Is L’asshole staying for dinner?”

Harrison glares at Elliot, then looks at me. “That’s him?”

“Be civil, please,” I warn him.

He’s the hothead of the four brothers. If someone would make good on his promise to break Elliot’s neck, that’d be Harrison. The former Delta Force can do a lot of damage with only one punch. But I’m hoping that he stays amicable and quiet—at least for today.

“I have to run,” Elliot says, puffing his chest. “I understand that you want space, but I’m just asking to have dinner with you. It’s just a meal, Hazel.” He opens the casserole dish, saunters toward me, and kisses my cheek, lingering for a few seconds. “Think about it, please.”

Relieved, I release my breath when he’s gone.

“What was that?” Fitz asks after closing the door.

“An olive branch, part of an apology.” I chew my lip.

“What are you doing, Beesley?” Harrison narrows his gaze.

“I…I don’t know,” I deflate. “Can we eat?”

“Welcome to healthy cooking for busybodies.”

I look around the classroom, but Fitz is nowhere to be found. What happened to we’ll do this together, Hazel?

“My name is Tori, and I’ll be your instructor for the next eight weeks. Today, we’re going to focus on your pantry and utensils.”

Hazel: You better be in the hospital or dead.

Fitz: No, I’m at the Ritz drinking a mimosa while having brunch with Harrison. You should join us next week. Oh, wait, you’re busy for the next two months. Oops.

Hazel: Are you abandoning me?

Fitz: Never, you’ll be fine on your own. I have faith in you.

I grind my teeth. He lied. But who am I to complain? I will give him a pass since he’s still upset about the whole Scott fiasco. Yet I give him a warning.

Hazel:If they pair me with some weirdo I’ll kill you. Better yet, I’ll ask Harrison to torture you.

“Is this seat taken?”

I twist my neck toward the throaty voice I’ve missed for the past couple of days. The corners of my lips curl upward when I find a pair of aquamarine eyes staring down at me. Scott is here.

“You’re my cooking partner?”

Scott winks at me in response, and my heart skips a beat. The corners of my lips pull toward the sky at the sight of him.

“The gentleman in the back, welcome to the class. If you don’t mind, please take a seat. The class already started.”

“Sorry for interrupting,” Scott says out loud. Leaning closer, he mumbles, “Why are we taking cooking lessons?”

He spots my organizer and rolls his eyes. Reaching out to it, he opens it and points at each item on the list.

“Perfecting cooking?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing at me while he continues reading. “Might as well name this, How to Be The Next Martha Stewart. What made you decide this?”

I shush him lightly, moving my attention back to Tori. Later, I’ll tell him about my latest epiphany. On a scale from one to ten, my domestic skills are about a negative three. A two if we count baking, which I love. It relaxes me, and I’m good at it. I can bake a mean chocolate mousse cake. The Everharts recognize that I’m the best at making their mother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe.

But when it comes to cooking, I can’t get it right. I can clean, but I’ve never sewn or ironed. All my clothes are dry-cleaned, wrinkle-free, or I don’t care how wrinkled they are while I wear them. I own needles and yarn, but I haven’t found the time to learn how to knit.

He continues flipping the pages, his index finger moving from one item to another. “Pen,” he whispers.

I lift my purse, grab my pencil bag, and hand him a teal-colored pen. I have everything color-coded, and teal ink is designated for Scott’s alterations. Stretching my neck, I see some of his scribbles but can’t read any of what he’s writing. Once he’s done, he hands it over. He added searching for a house in San Fran, going to New York in two weekends, and reestablishing both Mexican Monday and Sushi Sunday. Being spontaneous. Smile.

There’s also a note at the bottom of the page. Everything is subject to change without notice.

I shake my head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Let’s ditch this class. I can teach you how to cook. It’ll be a one-on-one instruction, and you can have your Sunday mornings back.”

“Tempting.” I chew the bottom of my lip.

Charlotte Everhart raised her children to know how to do everything at home. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, even changing diapers. Well, only Scott and Harrison got to learn that. “But I’ll have no excuse to ask for your cooking skills.”

“Then I’ll cook for you.” He turns to the front, then toward me. “This is boring, please.”

The instructor is showing pasta, pots, pans, and items I can buy at the store next door. Spices … and the big commercial continues. This isn’t what I signed up for, but I want to learn how to cook without incidents. Like food poisoning, burnt meals, or other episodes I’ve encountered in the past.

“Maybe that’s it. I’m not wife material,” I mumble.

“What’s wife material?” Scott leans closer and uses a low voice. “Because my brothers’ brides have many skills, but none of them include these.” He taps my notebook.

He’s right. My sister is less qualified in the domestic goddess department than I am. And Luna … wait, Luna knows how to cook, but she enjoys holding a knife against the throat of bad guys more than being in the kitchen. I chuckle as I now realize that the Everhart men are the ones who cook the most in their households.

“No skills are required to find happiness,” he reminds me, lifting his index finger as he gives me the reasons for why this is unhealthy. “Marriage doesn’t equal happiness. Everyone is different when it comes to relationships. You don’t have to fit into someone’s mold to be loved. If he doesn’t love you for who you are, he’s not worthy of your love.”

He shows me his open palm. “Should I continue?”

“Life coaching me again?”

“Life coaching isn’t a verb,” he corrects me with a smirk plastered on his lips. “I have to bring the obvious. I left for a few days, and you’re micromanaging your life again. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” he says, winking at me. He checks his watch and moves his gaze to the front. “We have an eleven o’clock appointment at the property on Scott Street. Why don’t I take you for brunch?”

“Shh.” I pretend to pay attention, but instead, I chuckle as he grabs my organizer, goes to my calendar section, crosses out cooking class, and scribbles “brunch and house hunting, now!”

Giving up, I put my things away. “You’re insane and bossy, Everhart.”

“You love when I’m bossy.” He smiles, kissing my cheek.

Without uttering a word to the instructor, we make our way out of the class.