At First Touch. Cindy Miles

and found the broom. She began to blindly sweep the area in a wide arc, hoping to get it all. Finished, she inhaled, and continued on with the task of now finding a knife. Dangerous? Yeah, probably so. Hopefully, she’d dice the tomatoes, peppers and onions without chopping off a finger. She’d just go slow. Take it easy.

      At the sink, as Reagan washed the vegetables, her thoughts drifted to the morning spent with Eric. She hadn’t meant to sound so...stiff. Unfriendly. Ungrateful. She used to never be that way at all. Now? She felt...mad, all the time. Inadequate. The unwanted center of pitied attention. Eric’s personality was opposite of the way she was now. He was so upbeat. Involved. Ridiculously charming. Seemingly carefree. Just like he’d been as a kid. From what she could recall, anyway. It’s not like she and Eric had been as close as Em and Matt. Reagan barely remembered the little brat.

      But for some reason, said brat seemed set on involving himself in her new, less-than-desirable blind life.

      What was she to do with that?

      Shaking her head, she continued on to her task of attempting dinner preparations. Tasks she’d completed in record time before now took her long, tedious minutes. Em had told her the cutting board was behind the mixer on the counter, so she felt her way there and moved her fingers over the cool surface until they brushed the hard metal of the standing mixer. Sliding her hand around she felt the wooden cutting board, and she pulled it out. Feeling for the first bit of vegetable she’d washed, Reagan lifted what she believed was a pepper—smooth and waxy beneath her fingertips—and sniffed it. Definitely a pepper. Now for a sharp knife. Reagan thought about it. Where had her sister said they’d be? She reached into a drawer. One by one she checked through the drawers until she felt the blade of a knife and lifted it out. Examining it carefully, she determined it wasn’t exactly the type of blade she needed, but it’d have to make do.

      After what seemed like hours, Reagan completed the chopping of the vegetables. Not before she dropped half of them onto the floor, or knocked them onto the floor with her arm or hand. Finding the sauce—she hoped—Reagan dumped them into the pot, added the vegetables, and felt the burner knob with her fingertips. Hoping the setting was on low, she turned to the task of browning the sausage. Draining it in the colander. Adding it to the sauce. Finally, the entire process was done and the sauce simmered on the stove top.

      And then a knock interrupted preparations.

      “Reagan? Eric Malone again.” A voice came from the porch. “I uh, came to help. You. With, uh, supper— God it smells good in here.”

      Reagan just shook her head. Did he think her totally incompetent? “Come on in.”

      The door creaked open, almost before the words even left her mouth, and Eric’s heavy footfalls moved toward her. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I didn’t want to be eating, I don’t know, cardboard and stems—dang, girl. You’ve made a mess in here.”

      Reagan’s ears detected laughter in Eric’s voice, and she just sighed. “Yeah, well, help yourself to clean it up.”

      “Gladly. Broom?” he asked cheerfully.

      “Pantry.”

      Instead of the pantry door opening, Reagan saw Eric’s shadow move toward the stove. The metal lid scraped as he removed it. “Hey,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not too shabby, soldier. Tastes even better than it smells.”

      A faint smile touched Reagan’s lips. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

      Suddenly, Eric’s hands grasped hers. “Digits? Let me examine you.” His thumbs grazed her palms, then each finger. “Nine total. Is that right?”

      She shook her head and withdrew her hands. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

      “Seriously. It’s very good. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

      “Why?” Reagan asked. “Because a blind girl can actually still function in the kitchen?”

      Eric laughed. “No. That you can actually function in the kitchen. Emily told me you hate cooking.”

      Reagan shrugged, patting the counter until she found the pepper core, then scooped it in her hand. “Hate is a little drastic. Disinclination is more accurate.”

      “That’s a fancy word for hate, Reagan Rose.” Again, his hand was on hers, prying her fingers open and relieving her of the pepper core. “I’ll get that.” She heard the sound of the core being dropped into the trash can. “Okay, now what?”

      Reagan turned and washed her hands, then felt for the towel and dried them. No way was she getting rid of him, so she might as well just roll with it. “I was going to make garlic butter for the bread. You can...chop the salad.”

      “Sweet, let’s do it,” he said, a lilt in his voice. “What do you need for the butter besides, well, butter. And garlic?”