CHAPTER NINE

My heart is racing, and I feel queasy when I knock on the farmhouse door. I am about to lose it as Rory walks through the door wearing nothing but pants. I take a few deep breaths, one in each nostril, and slowly follow him into his kitchen. I'm amazed at his cooking skills right now. He is a present that keeps on giving.

I'm assuming you're a spaghetti fan.

I give a polite nod, covering up how amazed I really am. To cover his broad shoulders, he walks over to the chair his t-shirt is draped over and does so. Don't worry about me; I nearly always end up talking out loud. He responds, and I can tell by the look on my face that I am not pleased.

He excuses his absence of a t-shirt by saying sheepishly, "I didn't want to get spaghetti sauce on it."

I can't help but remark, "It smells great." As I cross the sizzling pan, the aroma fills my lungs. Can we skip the small talk and get right to business? I am interested as to how much of a time commitment it will take to organize all of his pa