“Tough cookies, Drinda,” she chided herself, “You said you’d come for coffee, you’re committed. Yeah, I should be committed for accepting.” She sighed and slipped out of her boots. She grabbed cream and a couple of butter tarts and headed to Ford’s. “Might as well get this over with.”
Chapter Five
Ford wiped down the counters and paced back and forth in the kitchen as he waited for the coffee to brew. Decaf. When was the last time he’d had decaffeinated coffee? Never. Shiftwork took a toll on you unless you learned to sleep at the drop of a hat … even when you were riddled with caffeine. He only kept decaf on hand for his mother, it was all she’d drink. Grammie L., on the other hand, wouldn’t be caught dead drinking decaf.
“Why did you invite her over?” he muttered as he leaned on the counter and watched the heavenly-scented dark brew drip into the carafe.
“I wondered that myself,” Drinda said, coming into the kitchen.
“Whoa! I didn’t hear you come in.” He jerked upright.
“You said let yourself in ….” she trailed off. “Whydidyou invite me? It’s not like we get along.”
He stopped pacing to face her and rooted around in his mind for an answer that made sense. “I don’t know. We’re neighbors. We live in the same town. We’re on a committee together.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea.”
His honesty was refreshing. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I brought tarts.” She set them and the cream on the table and looked around. “Nice place. I love the table." She stroked the polished oak. “Is this an antique?”
Ah! Something they could talk about. He grasped at the topic of conversation like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver. “It is. It was my other grandmother’s, not Grammie L. I refinished it. What do you think?”
“Exquisite.” She squatted and inspected the pedestal base. It’s flawless. "Do you do a lot of refinishing?”
“I’ve done a few pieces. It’s a hobby.” As she sat, he poured coffee for them both and brought the heavy, hand-crafted, ceramic mugs to the table.
“Thank you.” She slid the cup closer. She looked around. The kitchen was tidy, and void of personality.The heavy leather recliners and dark wood occasional tables she’d passed on her way in looked in good shape and uncluttered. “It doesn’t look like a bachelor pad in here at all.” She grinned at him as she poured cream into her mug.
“Thanks?” She had a knack for making him uncomfortable. “What were you expecting? Dirty socks everywhere? Pizza boxes?”
“Something like that,” she quipped. “You know the stereotype. Though recliners instead of couches don’t surprise me. Total mancave vibe.”
“I’ll have you know; I keep my place clean.” He grinned though the mancave comment stung a bit. He didn’t have trinkets everywhere so what? His home was comfortable. “I have a lady come in twice a week. I detest cleaning up almost as much as I hate a mess.”
“Cheater.” Her laugh rang out unfettered. Short, loud, and happy. No delicate laugh here. Just a quick bark of emotion. Delightful.
“I love your laugh,” he admitted.
“Um, thanks?” She seemed surprisedby the comment.
“That’s a compliment.” He paused to consider his next words before confessing, “I dated a woman, another fire fighter trainee. Years ago, obviously. She never laughed. The best I ever got was a smile.”
“Never?”
“Never. She grew up being told that loud laughter was rude and uncouth. She learned to curtail the sound. Nothing makes me smile more than other people’s laughter.”
“Maybe I should have laughed when I spilled that coffee on you,” she deadpanned. “Maybe you wouldn’t have been so mad.”
Her wink shot straight to his libido. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry I got annoyed.” He straightened the tea towel hanging on the stove. He probably should change it out, it was getting grubby.
“Apology accepted.” She sipped her coffee. “You make a decent cup of decaf,” she admitted.
“I try. Glad you like it.” He sat across from her and added milk and sugar to his mug. He stirred it and set the spoon on a napkin from the pile in the center of thetable. “I was thinking Black Forest cake,” he fired his opening shot in what he knew would become a battle.
“Crème Brûlée,” she countered.
“Angel food cake with fresh berries and whipped cream.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn’t cake, but it was one of his favs.
“We live in Canada. The dinner is in February. Where are we getting berries that haven’t shipped from California?”
“Good point.” He spun his mug around in a slow circle until the handle made a full rotation. “Ice cream bar where you choose your flavor and toppings?”
