LITMIR.BIZ

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handing it to him, careful not to touch his hand. She spied the cutting board next to the sink and picked it up. “You’ll need this, too.”

       He put the knife down and took the board from her. “Okay. I’ve got tools. I’m sure I can figure out how to slice and dice.”

       She peered at him. “Have you ever chopped an onion?”

       He shook his head as he retrieved the knife and held it up in the air. “No, I sure haven’t.”

       “Um…you want me to show you how?” Chopping lessons seemed harmless enough.

       He grabbed the onion and eyed it. “Nah, how hard can it be?”

       Relief and disappointment hit her at once, creating a strange kind of off-balance feeling inside of her she didn’t really like. She gestured to the cutting board. “Have at it, then. I only need half.”

       He threw the onion in the air and deftly caught it with one hand, grinning. “Half a chopped onion for Chef Molly, coming right up.”

       My, he was cute. Put him in front of a grill with tongs in his hand and she was his.

       Disconcerted all over again, Molly spun around and opened the refrigerator to hunt for salad makings.

       Bent over, she rustled around in the fridge, then jerked one of the lower drawers out, pawing her way through the produce Rose had obviously bought for Grant.

       “So,” she said, focusing on her goal of learning as much as possible about Grant. “Do you read much?” She shoved a bag of baby carrots aside, searching for lettuce.

       “Do I do what much?” Grant replied after a long moment.

       “Read.”

       “Deed?”

       “No, read, as in books,” she yelled. Suddenly, a mental picture of herself developed in her brain, and the picture showed her hunched over, yelling into the refrigerator.

       “Deed the rooks?”

       Oh, brother. She grabbed the elusive lettuce at the bottom of the bin and straightened, chastising herself for being flustered. Grant was just a man, no more, no less. The fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous shouldn’t matter.

       She whirled around, shoving her hair out of her face. Time to be reliable and fulfill her promise to Rose by doing her matchmaker thing. Without acting like a twelve-year-old hanging out with her first crush.

       She looked at Grant. He had his eyebrows drawn together and the knife suspended in midair. Obviously, he was puzzled by her behavior. Who could blame him?

       He probably thought she was a bona fide nut job.

       She smiled awkwardly, trying to look as if she hadn’t just attempted to have a conversation with him while shouting into a kitchen appliance. “No. Read books.”

       “Oh,” he said, nodding slowly. He went back to chopping, although he wielded the blade more like a machete than a knife. “Not really. I don’t have time.”

       Right. Because he was always working. “Really? I’m a big reader.” Although, since she wasn’t looking for a match for herself, that discrepancy in their reading habits didn’t matter. “Did you read as a kid?” she asked, heading across the kitchen to get a salad bowl from the cupboard.

       “Yeah, I guess.” More machete-ing. “Mostly science books.”

       That made sense. He was a brain, even though he didn’t look like one.

       “Oh, and comic books,” he added. “I loved superheroes.”

       “Really? I read a lot of comic books as a kid, too. Who’s your favorite?”

       He stopped chopping and stared at her. “Spider Man, of course.”

       “Me, too,” she replied, amazed that they had the same favorite. “No contest. My dogs’ names are Peter and Parker, and I own the movie. How about you?”

       “I only had time to see it once, but I loved it.”

       Of course. No time for movies in this guy’s life. “You still have your comic books?”

       He stilled, then quickly looked down. “My mom saved them, so they’re up in my parents’ attic somewhere.”

       Sympathy shot through her. Oh, yes. Rose had told her he’d recently lost his mom. “Have you ever thought about finding them?” she asked softly. “It might be fun to reread them sometime.”

       “Nope.”

       “Why not?” Wasn’t it important for her to know lots about him? You know, to properly set him up.

       Picking up the knife, he began to studiously chop the onion again, pausing before he quietly answered, “A lot of my mom’s stuff is up there.”

       A knot built in her chest, making it hard to breathe. “Your aunt Rose told me about your mom. I’m so sorry.”

       “Thanks,” he said, not looking up, his voice raw and husky. “It’s been rough.”

       Her eyes burned. “My mom died when I was a little girl, so I know how hard it is to lose a mom.” She’d been inconsolable for months after her mom had been killed in a car accident.

       Grant looked up, his eyes full of empathy. “Oh, wow. How old were you?”

       “Eight.”

       He shook his head. “That must have been really, really hard.”

       “It was.” Harder still had been essentially losing her father, who had been so filled with grief over his wife’s death, he’d forgotten all about Molly.

       Until now. He’d been calling a lot recently, wanting back into her life. But the walls she’d put up wouldn’t be so easily torn down. Even with God’s help, and lots of prayers, she’d struggled with this issue for quite a while.

       Suddenly, onion smell overwhelmed her, and her eyes started tearing. Drawing back, she actually looked at the pile of onions on the cutting board in front of Grant.

       She did a double take. Instead of pieces of onion, the cutting board was full of onion mush, speckled with brown bits.

       Her jaw went slack. “You didn’t peel the onion before you chopped?” she asked, her throat burning.

       He looked up, tears running down his sculpted cheeks. “No. Was I supposed to?” he asked, sniffing.

       She backed away from the stinging onion aroma and nodded toward the mashed onions. “Uh…yeah. I thought you knew to take the dry, papery outer layer off.”

       He set the knife down and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand before turning his watery gaze to his handiwork. “How would I know? I told you I’ve never chopped onions before.”

       “Good point.” She gazed at the pile of goo that used to be an onion. “Um…you may have overchopped a bit, too.”

       He considered the slush pile on the cutting board, his brow line hoisted high. “You think?”

       She put her hands on her hips. “Definitely. They’re supposed to be pieces, not…mush with skin.”

       He reached for the other half of the onion, his mouth curved into a wry smile. “You want me to try again? I’m game if you are, although we might end up onion-less.” His eyes lit up. “Better yet, I’ll do an internet search on how to chop onions.”

       She shook her head. “No, no need to bring your computer into this. I’ll do the chopping. Spaghetti sauce just wouldn’t be right without onions.” She glanced around and saw the antique table in the dining room off the kitchen. “Why don’t you work on setting the table.”

       He set the onion down. “Now, that I can do.” He picked up the knife and presented it to her with a flourish. “Your

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