Wood missed Tate and you only hold onto anger that long if the person you’re angry at meant something to you so I was guessing Tate missed Wood too.

“Ace,” Tate called and I looked from his plants to him. “You lied.”

Taken from my thoughts and surprised at his words, I felt my eyebrows draw together. “Sorry?”

He slid his fork on his plate and his brows went up. “Passable?”

I looked at his clean plate then back to him. “My cooking’s okay, not much to write home about. This was good because of my grandfather’s famous mustard sauce, not me.”

“Your grandfather come for a visit while I was puttin’ up the curtain rods?” he asked.

“No, he’s dead,” I answered.

“Babe,” Tate replied on a grin.

I felt the sudden, intense need for Tate to know about me. I’d let him in, I’d let me out. I wanted this and I wanted him and I wanted him to have me.

Therefore, I shared, “All my grandparents are dead.”

He sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah?”

“Gramps, that’s Mom’s father, he’s the mustard glaze guru,” I informed him, Tate didn’t reply so I went on. “It was his farm that became Dad’s. He had only girls. Three of them. Dad studied agriculture at school. His folks owned a farm too but it was smaller and he was the second of two sons. My Uncle George got that farm.” Tate remained silent so I went on. “Dad took over Gramps’s farm. We all lived there together, all my life, until I left and, after that, Grams and Gramps passed away. It was okay though, us being together, because it was a big house and it made us a big family.”

Tate still didn’t speak, didn’t start sharing his own stories so I continued.

“Mom’s Mom, Grams, she made great chocolate chip cookies. The best,” I stated. “She used to refrigerate the dough between making it and baking it. I don’t know what this did but it made her cookies killer.”

Tate watched me and made not a noise.

“Dad’s Dad, he was a master at the grill. He could grill an amazing steak,” I continued.

Tate’s lips twitched but he remained quiet.

“Dad’s Mom,” I blathered on. “She was Polish and she could cook. I mean she could cook. She made these cookies, like crescent rolls but in cookie form with lots of cinnamon and sugar and butter and the dough was made with sour cream so they were rich and she sifted powdered sugar on them. She made them every Christmas and I always went over to help. She let me brush the melted butter on the rolled out dough and sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar on and she let me sift the powdered sugar on top.”

Finally, Tate spoke.

“All your memories come with food?” he asked.

“Dad makes the best cocktail sauce for shrimp you ever tasted. Carrie concocted this homemade macaroni and cheese that’s out of this world. And Mom got all the good of Grams and Gramma and put her own spin on it. Everything she makes will knock your socks off but her chocolate pecan pie is unbelievable.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tate mumbled.

“Food is love,” I replied.

“No, babe, it ain’t, but makin’ it for the ones you love so they can brag about it is,” Tate returned.

He had a point.

“You have a point,” I told him.

His arm shot out, his hand tagged me at the neck and he leaned forward as he pulled me to him. Then he touched his mouth to mine.

When his head moved away two inches, I asked softly, “Do you want cake?”

A smile spread on his face, a face that, at my question, grew soft and warm like earlier and since he was so close all I could do was stare.

Finally, he answered, “Yeah,” and let me go.

I grabbed my plate and beer bottle, Tate grabbed his and we took them into the house going through the backdoor into the mudroom. As we walked through the mudroom, I heard Tate’s cell phone on the kitchen counter ring.

When we hit the kitchen, I took his plate from him and walked to the sink while he walked to his phone.

I heard him answer, “Pop?”

I started to rinse the dishes.

“Yeah?” Tate asked and then there was a long silence. So long I had the plates and cutlery rinsed and in the dishwasher, I’d grabbed a knife and was cutting into the cake that was sitting on a plate on the island (homemade yellow cake, homemade chocolate butter cream frosting) when Tate spoke again. “Tell her, when I show, I don’t see that jackass.”

My eyes went from the cake to Tate. He had a hand on his hip, the other one holding his phone to his ear, his bottle of beer was on the counter and his head was bent, eyes studying his boots.

“Right… and Pop?” he said then finished with a quiet but intense. “Thanks. Owe you big.”

I stopped cutting and Tate flipped his phone closed, set it on the counter and started to me.

“Um…” I hesitated, “what was that?”

I held my breath for his response because his face was as intense as his voice had been and I didn’t get it. He also was coming to me in a way that was strangely purposeful and aggressive and I didn’t get that either. I let go of the knife still stuck in the cake and started to take a step back when he caught me and yanked me forward so hard I collided with his body.

I looked up at him as his arms wound around me. “Tate –”

“Pop ran interference with Neeta. Wood told him that I told her I was gettin’ Jonas this weekend and Pop stepped in, had a few words, calmed her ass down and I get him Friday at noon, takin’ him back Sunday by five.”

I still didn’t get why this made him look and act like he was.

“That’s… good,” I said searchingly.

“It’s f**kin’ great.” His arms around me gave me a squeeze. “Miss my kid, babe.”

Finally, I kind of got it. My body automatically melted into his and my arms went around his neck.

“Then that’s great,” I said quietly. “But, you haven’t seen him in awhile. I know that scene last night was intense but don’t you have visitation rights? Was it in question that you’d get a visit?”

“No tellin’ how they’d jack me over. Even when things are steady, I’m not on the road and need to change a visit, she f**ks with me. I get him after school on my Fridays but sometimes he’s not at home when I come to pick him up. She’s made me wait an hour, two, once they dragged in at ten at night.”