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“I’m sure you can find a handyman to do the job for you.”
She shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, which made her sweater fit tighter. “I was kind of hoping you could help me out. I’ll pay you...and feed you.”
His heart thudded against his chest. All she had to do was look at him like she was doing right now, and he’d hand her the moon on a silver platter.
“Feed me?” He sniffed the air and his mouth watered at the scent of garlic. “Now?”
“I thought it would be more effective to offer you food at the time of the request.” Folding her hands in front of her, she batted her eyelashes. “Pretty please?”
He snorted. “You’re pulling out all the stops. I’m pretty sure you’ve never said pretty please or batted your eyelashes in your entire life.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That bad, huh?”
“Bad, but the food smells great. Is it all vegetarian?”
“Salad, eggplant parmigiana and some penne with meatballs for you. I ordered in from that Italian place in the new shopping center.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Thanks.”
She went into the kitchen and he followed, admiring the way her jeans fit her.
She reached into a cupboard and stacked a couple of bowls on top of two plates, and then placed them on the counter. “We’ll eat at the counter, if that’s okay with you. I rarely use the kitchen table.”
“Okay by me.” He set the dishes on top of the woven place mats on the counter and pulled out the high chairs beneath it. “Do you want me to put the salad in these bowls?”
“Uh-huh. And...” She spun around, holding a bottle of wine in front of her. “I have wine.”
“Just water for me.”
She squinted at the label on the bottle. “It’s a good year—a cabernet from a Washington winery.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh.” She hugged the bottle to her chest. “I hope you don’t mind if I do.”
“Help yourself.” He dumped some salad evenly into the two bowls while she opened the wine. He didn’t even miss the stuff—except for on nights like the one he’d just had.
After they loaded their plates with food, they sat down at the counter and Jim raised his water glass. “To a drama-free night.”
She tapped her glass against his, and the red liquid swirled and caught the light, giving Scarlett’s cheeks a rosy glow.
“Did you get much work done this afternoon?” He ripped off a piece of garlic bread and dropped it onto his plate.
“Not really.” She waved her fork in the air. “I’d been working on a piece that I’d hoped to finish in the next few weeks, but I started a new project and it distracted me all afternoon. I hate it when that happens.”
“You’re lucky to have a creative outlet.”
“What about you? Now that you’re out of the army, what are your plans?”
He stabbed the pasta on his plate and dragged it through the red sauce. She expected an answer. This is how normal people had conversations—give and take. He put down his fork and cleared his throat. “I’d been doing some work with some organizations that help disabled vets.”
“Like physical therapy?”
He tapped his head. “The other kind of therapy.”
“Wow, that has to be tough.”
“For me or for them?”
“For everybody.”
“It’s no picnic.” He hunched forward. “That’s why I liked your modern artwork. It looks...therapeutic. I mean, we’re looking for all kinds of things to help these guys adjust—pets, music, art.”
“Sounds like a great program. Are you going to do that when you’re done with...whatever you’re doing here?”
“I need more training. I might go back to school. I mean, go to school, since I enlisted in the army after high school.”
“Can I give you a piece of advice?” She took a sip of her wine and the ruby liquid stained her lips.
He shifted his gaze from her mouth to her eyes. “Sure.”
“You might want to open up a little more.”
“I’m supposed to be getting them to open up.”
