“We don’t need the nice dishes. We just need to fill it.”
North pointed out the correctly sized boxes and bags, and they used them to pack the interior. They moved on quickly, removing the large farmhouse table from her mother’s bedroom and resting it on its side across from the china cabinet. Into this arrangement, they inserted the bookcases—stacking their shelves with still-packed boxes of books—and two overstuffed living room chairs. A porch swing, two rocking chairs, four patio chairs, a lawn mower, and half of the regular dining room chairs were further tucked in with expert precision.
The way North stacked everything—some things upside down, some things on their sides—was Tetris-like. Blocky. Stable. Every piece of furniture was padded with linens and towels, and every remaining crevice was jammed with knickknacks and small appliances. Everything was dusted before it was slid into place. North only vetoed a handful of items—a lamp, a table, a rug, and a few others. Those were set aside.
The air was cleaner. Emptier. As more space was created, Marigold became more aware of her breath, became aware that she could breathe. Her lungs felt hungry.
“What about the couch?” she asked. “It’s still in my bedroom.”
North mopped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He was sweating. “It’s going in the living room so you can use it.”
The thought—that incredibly simple thought—felt peculiar.
“You guys need something to sit on beside your beds. Somewhere to relax when you come home from work.” He unbuttoned his red-plaid flannel shirt. “Something to sit on while you admire my tree.”
Holy mother of Earth. Marigold was thankful she was already flushed from exertion. She tried to remain focused, but the sight of North undressing was monumentally distracting. “You keep calling it your tree.”
He grinned. “I grew it, didn’t I?”
“I bought it, didn’t I?”
“And I’m very glad you did.” North tossed aside the flannel shirt. He was now wearing a black T-shirt … with an NPR logo on it.
Marigold was doubly tongue-tied.
She knew, on some level, that North must like her. Guys just didn’t do things like this if they didn’t like you. But this was the first out-loud acknowledgment that maybe he was here for something more than utilizing his superhuman organizational skills.
It was thrilling.
And then … there was the T-shirt. National Public Radio seemed like something a boy who liked indoor activities would be interested in. Maybe they had more in common than she thought they did, more than a mutual appreciation for verbal sparring.
But the fact that Marigold hadn’t immediately given him a smartass retort took North’s own smartassery down a notch. He looked unsure of himself, like maybe he’d misread the situation. Maybe she wasn’t interested in him.
Oh, Marigold was interested.
Marigold was definitely interested.
She gave him a cocky smile. “NPR, huh?”
Her expression made him straighten his shoulders, and Marigold couldn’t help but notice—really, really notice—the shape of his upper body. The fact that it had a shape. But as her question sunk in, he grew embarrassed. He turned around to shove a shoebox filled with nuts and bolts into one of the last remaining crevices.
“I got it during their last pledge drive,” he said, meaning the T-shirt.
“Mm-hm,” Marigold said.
“I like keeping up with the news. I like learning things.”
“My mom listens to NPR.”
His back was still turned. “So I should have asked this earlier, but are there any boxes of Christmas”—he shook his head—“Yule decorations that we should be looking for?”
He was changing the subject instead of playing along. Interesting. Until now, he hadn’t seemed like someone who could resist a comeback.
“Or are solstice trees bare?” he continued drily. “The way nature made them?”
There was the North she knew. But … she didn’t know him, did she? Marigold was suddenly struck by how badly she wanted to know him.
She moved toward him. “We decorate ours.”
North turned around, not realizing how close she was standing behind him. He didn’t step backward, and his confidence didn’t waver. “So you’re saying there’s a box.”
His voice was so deep that it rattled through her. “Yeah. There are two.”
North smiled. “Care to describe these boxes?”
“One is for an old Fisher-Price castle. The other is for a Fisher-Price Tudor house.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen those yet.” His voice had gotten even deeper, somehow. Even—okay, she could admit it—sexier. Deep and sexy … about Fisher-Price boxes.
She turned away from him, smiling to herself. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?”
He seemed amused by her amusement. Even if he didn’t understand it. “Yeah. Coffee, thanks.”
The kitchen was a wreck, but—unlike how the rest of the apartment had been—it contained more room to maneuver around in. As Marigold brewed the coffee, North grabbed a round patio table and two dining room chairs, and he made a cozy new dining area in one corner of the living room. Marigold usually ate standing up or at her desk. She couldn’t remember the last time she and her mother had eaten together.
North appeared behind her, pointing at her coffee-making device. “What’s that?”
“A French press.”
“Fancy.”
She shrugged. “My mom doesn’t believe in electric coffeemakers.”
“At least she believes in coffee.”
Marigold laughed as she removed two mugs (handmade, her mother also believed in supporting local artists) from the cabinet. “How do you take yours?”
“Black,” he said.
“Figures. A hearty lumberjack like yourself.”
North snorted.
Marigold grinned. “I take mine black, too.”
He leaned over the island in the kitchen, leaned his tall body toward hers. “And here I had you figured for an herbal-tea kind of girl.”
“Right.” Marigold rolled her eyes. She handed him his coffee. “Because of the restaurant.”
“Because of the solstice. And your name. And this pottery.” He held up the mug. “What’s the restaurant?”
She’d forgotten that she hadn’t told him. It seemed like he should already know. Marigold sat down at the patio table, and North sat across from her. “My mom owns a late-night vegan comfort-food restaurant downtown,” she said in one breath. “Yes, I know. It’s very Asheville.”