I unfroze from my position on the stairs and followed her inside.
The cabin was warm and surprisingly cozy. Its owner wasn’t very fanciful or frivolous, so I couldn’t help but stare at the placemats with ruffles that perfectly matched the eyelet lace tablecloth.
There was a drawing on the refrigerator that caught my eye. I stared, noting it was the only thing on there. No magnets or pizza delivery numbers, no pictures. Nothing, except a colorful illustration of Joan on a tractor, drawn by my nephew. “To Joan, From George” was written at the top in Georgie’s messy scrawl.
Not for the first time, I marveled over Joan’s softness where my nephew was concerned. There was nothing overtly affectionate or maternal about her, but somehow, she was exactly who Georgie needed. Her forthright nature, her gentle honesty, and the endless patience she had for all his questions had changed everything. Georgie was a different kid now than when we’d first arrived in Kirby Falls. And I had Joan to thank for that.
He’d been more open with me lately, too. I’d gotten a few friendship bracelets for my collection and hugs before bedtime. The progress brought a lump to my throat.
“You can reheat it here, if you want,” Joan said, capturing my attention but doing nothing to ease the ache in my heart.
She indicated a burner she’d turned to low on the stovetop.
“Thanks,” I told her, setting the pot down.
“I have some fresh bread I can warm in the oven,” she offered, still looking and sounding unsure.
“That sounds great.”
While she pressed buttons and got a cooking sheet out, I wandered around the kitchen island.
The floor plan opened right up into the living room. Joan had more throw pillows than I would have imagined on a worn leather sofa that looked very comfortable. A television was mounted over a gas fireplace that was currently on, and the built-in shelves on either side held a combination of books and picture frames that I wanted to snoop through.
There weren’t many knickknacks or things just sitting around, and I liked that I’d guessed at least one thing right about Joan’s personal space. Although a gallery wall of mismatched frames boasted beautiful artwork, and I couldn’t really have anticipated that.
There was a blanket tossed over the arm of a big, cozy chair in the corner and a book face down on the end table next to it. I’d clearly interrupted her by showing up here this evening.
But I couldn’t make myself regret it.
Not even when I turned around and found Joan watching me cautiously from the kitchen.
I smiled and admitted, “I wanted to see you. My schedule was ridiculous leading up to the break, and I know we need to talk—” My gaze snagged on something on the wall next to her. “Is that a landline?”
Walking over, I picked up the off-white receiver and held it up to my ear to hear an honest-to-God dial tone. “Wow. I’ve never seen one of these before. Can I use it?”
“Christ,” Joan muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“And an answering machine, too,” I gasped. “I thought you only built this place a few years ago?”
“I like having a landline, okay?” She sounded exasperated, like she’d defended this decision many times over. “Cell reception can be unreliablein the mountains. If someone needs to get a hold of me, I want to make sure they can.”
I wiped a hand across my mouth to hide my grin. That was the most Joan-like thing I’d ever heard. “Can I have a tour?” I asked.
She frowned. “You’re nosy.”
I shrugged, unbothered. Iwasnosy where she was concerned. My fingers itched to comb through every book on her shelf. It would be like uncovering history, a distant civilization.
Of course, I was curious about this woman. I’d been thinking about her nonstop for weeks. Daydreaming about a million different scenarios. Some were innocent and painfully domestic. Like watching a movie together just to see her reactions—what made her smile or drew a laugh. Did she eat popcorn? What candy was her favorite? I bet she required total silence and got annoyed if anyone chatted nearby.
I wanted to know what side of the bed she slept on and what kind of toothpaste she used. Was the coconut I sometimes smelled on her skin from lotion or soap or shampoo? What was her policy on opening presents on Christmas Eve? Did she sing in the shower?
And, of course, some of the fantasizing was decidedly less innocent in nature. What sounds would she make if I touched her everywhere I wanted? Would she let me go down on her? How did she feel about hot-tub sex? For or against? I envisioned those long, toned legs wrapped around my hips and propped up on my shoulders and bent over her couch cushions.
Now, at least, I knew what her couch looked like.
“Yeah, I am nosy about you,” I told her honestly. “I haven’t been shy about what I want.”
I kept my gaze steady on hers and was rewarded a moment later when heat climbed her cheeks, and she had to clear her throat before saying, “Fine.”
