The Gratitude Guarantee (Boyfriend in the Bargain #4)

8. Brenna

8

brENNA

A gentleman, indeed.

It’s hard to argue that point when he’s doing so much to help me out over the next few days, but at the same time, there’s some mysterious quality to him that I find intriguing. I get the feeling that there’s much more to Zach Dawson than meets the eye.

But I don’t have much of an opportunity to contemplate this as the traffic thickens and I turn my full concentration on the road. When we finally leave Nashville behind and break into smoother driving, I breathe a sigh of relief. “It should be smooth sailing from here.”

“Let me know if you want me to take a turn driving,” he offers. “I don’t mind.”

“I think I’m good, but I’ll let you know. Maybe we should go through the itinerary again to make sure you don’t have any questions?” For some reason, I feel anxious about everything on the schedule, even though I normally thrive in a highly organized environment. I think it’s a combination of feeling responsible for both of us instead of just myself, as well as wanting to make sure Zach feels comfortable. For me, being prepared equals comfort, so that’s what I’m going with.

“Sure, we can do that.” He pulls up the message I sent him on his phone and begins to read. “Dinner tonight at six, then we’ll make a pie for the competition. What kind of pie are we going to make?”

“How do you feel about apple cranberry?”

“I’ve never had it, but it sounds good.”

“I’ve never had it either,” I admit. “I debated between that and lemon icebox because I can make that in my sleep, but I decided to go for something different. You know, to help us stand out.”

I’m relieved when Zach nods approvingly. “Good thinking. Adding cranberries to the apples sounds like a fun twist on an old favorite. Familiar but also new.”

“Exactly!” He totally gets it. “And I was thinking instead of doing a regular crust on top we could do a crumble topping like on a cobbler.”

He gives me a thumbs-up. “I like it.”

“Do you…know anything about cooking?” I tentatively inquire.

“What, you think because I’m a single guy I survive on nothing but takeout and frozen dinners?”

“No! Of course not!” I glance over to see him looking at me with a raised brow and pursed lips. “Okay, maybe I did kind of think that. Am I right or wrong?”

“Eh.” He holds a hand out flat and rotates it from side to side. “I can cook, but not anything too complicated. Mostly pasta. And brownies. I do make good brownies.”

I smile. “You can’t go wrong with a good brownie.”

“I’ll make you a batch sometime.”

“Don’t think I won’t hold you to that,” I warn. “A promise is a promise.”

“I assure you, I’m a man of my word.” Something in the low tone of his voice sends a little shiver through me.

“Are you cold?” Zach reaches forward and turns the knob to increase the heat.

“Thanks,” I say to avoid answering the question. “Anyway, I’m glad we agree on what kind of pie to make. I did some research and found a recipe that I think will work, so we just need to stop at the grocery store on our way to my parents’ house and grab the ingredients. What’s next on the list?”

“Looks like the Turkey Trot 5K at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Right, the race. It’s fun. You’ll love it. We’ll need to get there around seven-thirty to register and pick up our numbers, so we’ll need to set our alarms for about six-thirty.”

“Okay, I’m setting mine now.” A couple screen taps later, he switches back to the list. “After the race, it says pancake breakfast.”

“We always go home, grab a quick shower, and make pancakes with lots of toppings.”

“Sounds great. Next is ‘Helping Hands Kitchen.’ That’s the meal they serve at the church?”

“Right. After breakfast, we head over to the church. When we get there, Margie Harold, the pastor’s wife, will assign everyone a place to serve. Usually, the options are prepping the food, serving it at the buffet table, or washing dishes. I’ve done all three, and I like the dishes best because it’s low pressure and nearly impossible to mess up.”

“Got it.” I love his business-like approach to this. He could easily make light of our routine, but he seems genuinely interested in being on board with everything. “Then we go back to Hartford House and cook some more?”

I chuckle at the name Hartford House. I like it. I might even adopt that moniker for my childhood home myself. “That stage of the process takes a while, though there is some downtime while things are cooking,” I explain. “Of course, the pies will already be done, but we’ll need to cook the turkey, dressing, candied yams, rolls, mashed potatoes, gravy, deviled eggs, and green bean casserole.”

“I appreciate a family who values a solid meal,” he says seriously.

I love that about my family, too. Nobody ever leaves the Hartford table hungry.

“After dinner, it says ‘Thanksgiving Charades.’ Are you any good at charades?”

I grimace. “Not really. I would have been happier with…well, pretty much any other game. That and Pictionary are a struggle for me.”

Zach chuckles. “Well, lucky for you, I’m excellent at charades. We definitely have a shot at winning that one.”

“I will be exceedingly impressed if you can pull that off because I am the only one in my family who didn’t seem to get the charades gene.”

“We got this,” he says confidently. “Your family won’t know what hit them.”

I suspect that’s more true than he could imagine.

“Okay, the last thing on the list for tomorrow is a ‘Puzzle Off.’” His face scrunches. “What is that?”

“I don’t actually know,” I reply with a similar expression. “She wouldn’t say. I think she wants it to be a surprise, so all I know is it’s the last phase of the competition.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll just do our best. I mean, puzzles are fun, right?”

“Right.” We ride in silence for a few minutes, and I reflect on his willingness to jump in with both feet.

“Hey, Zach? Thanks for everything.”

He drops his phone in his lap and looks at me. “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even done anything.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll go ahead and be preemptively thankful for all the stuff you’ve agreed to do. I know it’s a lot, and I appreciate it in advance.”

“Even if we don’t win? You strike me as the competitive type.” He crosses his arms and smirks, daring me to contradict him.

“Even if we don’t win, I guarantee I’ll still be grateful.” I pause for a moment. “I would really like to win, though. For the record.”

His laugh fills the car with warmth, and I find I’m looking forward to spending the next two days with this guy who went from gym acquaintance to fake boyfriend in less than a week.