Free Nights in Rodanthe by Nicholas Sparks

tried it. I usually go with a chardonnay. Have you?”
    “No.”
    He crossed the kitchen, carrying the potatoes. After setting them on the counter, he reached for the wine. Adrienne saw him
     study the label for a moment before looking up.
    “Sounds okay. Says it’s got hints of apples and oranges, so how bad can it be? Do you know where I might find a corkscrew?”
    “I think I saw one in one of the drawers around here. Let me check.”
    Adrienne opened the drawer below the utensils, then the one next to it, without luck. When she finally located it, she handed
     it to him, feeling her fingers brush against his. With a few quick moves, he removed the cork and set it off to the side.
     Hanging below the cabinet near the oven were glasses, and Paul moved toward them. He took one out and hesitated.
    “Would you like me to pour you a glass?”
    “Why not?” she said, still feeling the sensation of his touch.
    Paul poured two glasses and brought one over. He smelled the wine, then took a sip as Adrienne did the same. As the flavor
     lingered on the back of her throat, she found herself still trying to make sense of things.
    “What do you think?” he asked.
    “It’s good.”
    “That’s what I think.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Actually, it’s better than I thought it would be. I’ll have to remember
     this.”
    Adrienne felt the sudden urge to retreat and took a small step backward. “Let me get started on the chicken.”
    “I guess that’s my signal to get to work.”
    As Adrienne found the roasting pan beneath the oven, Paul set his glass on the counter and moved to the sink. After turning
     on the faucet, he soaped and scrubbed his hands. She noticed that he washed both the front and the back, then cleaned his
     fingers individually. She turned on the oven, set it to the temperature she wanted, and heard the gas click to life.
    “Is there a peeler handy?” he asked.
    “I couldn’t find one earlier, so I think you’ll have to use a paring knife. Is that okay?”
    Paul laughed under his breath. “I think I can handle it. I’m a surgeon,” he said.
    As soon as he said the words, it all clicked: the lines on his face, the intensity of his gaze, the way he’d washed his hands.
     She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Paul moved beside her and reached for the potatoes, then began cleaning
     them.
    “You practiced in Raleigh?” she asked.
    “I used to. I sold my practice last month.”
    “You retired?”
    “In a way. Actually, I’m heading off to join my son.”
    “In Ecuador?”
    “If he’d asked, I would have recommended the south of France, but I doubt he would have listened to me.”
    She smiled. “Do they ever?”
    “No. But then again, I didn’t listen to my father, either. It’s all part of growing up, I guess.”
    For a moment, neither of them said anything. Adrienne added assorted spices to the chicken. Paul started to peel, his hands
     moving efficiently.
    “I take it Jean’s worried about the storm,” he commented.
    She glanced at him. “How could you tell?”
    “Just the way you got quiet on the phone. I figured she was telling you what needed to be done to get the house ready.”
    “You’re pretty perceptive.”
    “Is it going to be hard? I mean, I’d be glad to help if you need it.”
    “Be careful—I just might take you up on that. My exhusband was the one who was good with a hammer, not me. And to be honest,
     he wasn’t all that good, either.”
    “It’s an overrated skill, I’ve always believed.” He set the first potato on the chopping block and reached for the second
     one. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been divorced?”
    She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about this, but surprised herself by answering anyway.
    “Three years. But he’d been gone for a year before that.”
    “Do the kids live with you?”
    “Most of the time. Right now, they’re on school break, so they’re visiting their father. How