“Not always.” I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. I’m not surprised anymore by his silence. I’ve resigned myself to pulling every single word out of him.
“Well, he’s coming this year so we should decorate. Besides, I bet Reacher would like a tree. Wouldn’t you?” I say ruffling the dog’s ears. He hasn’t left my side since we sat down. I think it’s starting to irritate Beau. Too bad. I’m not giving up the only friendly thing in this house. “So, where do you keep your tree?”
“Outside. In the ground. Where they belong.”
“Oh.” Maybe I can make some garland to hang at the very least. “Okay. I’ll think on that later. I did promise coffee cake with our afternoon tea. You have tea, don’t you?”
He stomps into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a box. Setting it on the counter, he turns to glare at me. “Fine. Nowshoo so I can make the cake. Go on. Go sit in a chair and keep me company.” I make go-away swooshes with my hands.
Beau looks at me with one eyebrow raised, but he moves to slump against the wall at the kitchen table. He leans half against the back of the chair and half against the wall. His long legs are stretched in front of him, and his elbows rest on the table and chair back.
How come when a woman sits like that, she’s being “unladylike,” but it’s fine for a man? He looks casually alpha male. It’s like business casual, but in sexy man speak.
“This is my great, great, grandma’s recipe. Fortunately for you, I have it memorized.” I tap my temple. “It has all the good stuff in it. Back then they didn’t give a hot rat’s ass about carbs.”
“Hot rat’s ass?” I catch a quick glimpse of white teeth before Beau manages to hide his smile. So, he can smile without a hole opening up and swallowing him whole. Miracles never cease.
“The same grandma who said you should never drink water, it’ll rust your pipes.”
“What did she drink instead?”
“Whiskey. What else.”
“I think I like your great, great, grandma.”
“Just wait until you try her coffee cake. She called it a which-what-who. I don’t know why.” I work at mixing the batter with a whisk I found in a drawer. When it’s smooth, I pour it into a pan and add the brown sugar mixture on top. “Now, we just have to wait for it to bake. What can we do for thirty-five minutes?”
His gaze travels down my body and back up before his eyes meet mine. Was that a blush I saw creeping up from under the collar of his shirt? I must be imagining things. Too many soap operas, I’m sure.
“Do you have a deck of cards?” I ask.
“Should.” He moves into the living room and digs around in a cabinet under a wall of bookshelves. Returning to the table, hedumps two decks in front of me. I’ve taken the chair across from where he was sitting.
“Do you know how to play go fish?”
“Or an adult game.” He shuffles the cards and deals them out. “We’ll start with gin rummy.”
“Fine, but you know you want to secretly say ‘go fish.’” I organize my cards. He shakes his head and cuts to see who goes first. I win the cut so I draw a card. Siding it into place, I toss a discard on the table. “Go fish.”
He lets out a big sigh, Oscar-worthy really. Drawing a card, he studies his hand and then squints his eyes at me. Without looking away, he tosses down his discard.
“Fish,” he mumbles. It makes me grin. Somewhere, way deep down, I believe Beau Rayburn has a sense of humor. The game continues back and forth until the buzzer on the stove vibrates.
“Hold that thought.” Jumping out of my chair, I move to the oven. The toothpick I use to check the coffee cake slides out clean proving it’s ready. “Smells so good,” I moan setting the pan on the counter. “Tea?”
“Sure.” He watches as I move around the kitchen. He has a surprisingly large variety of tea selections. I chose an apple spice and set the kettle on one of the burners. Turning the knob, I wait for the click of the igniter, but nothing happens.
“You have to light it,” he says leaning around me. “It’s old.” He pulls a match from a cute little jar behind the stove, strikes it, and lights the burner.
There’s a moment when he’s reaching for the match where his chest brushes against my back. I know it sounds crazy, but in that instance, my body heats to the point of boiling. It’s almost erotic how good his touch feels.
He moves away in a blink, but my body still tingles everywhere he pressed against me. Lord, I’m losing it. I mean,it’s been a long time since I’ve had time to press against a man, but this is ridiculous.
“I should cut…cake?” I mumble.
“Are you asking?” He moves back to his chair at the table. That tiniest of smiles appears again. Probably because his innocent touch has made me twitterpated. That’s what my granny used to call it anyway. She said whenever my dad came to see my mom when she was in high school, she lost all her senses. But I’m not in high school, and we’re not dating.
“No, I’m just letting you know I’m picking up a knife. In case you need to light any more burners suddenly.” I sound more confident this time.
