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“Err… don’t worry,” he replied. “I didn’t see anything.”
Or if he had, he was just too polite to say so. In reality, I know that he must have caught at least the ridge of my hip or the dimple of my stomach. And, despite the humiliation searing through my veins, I wondered what he thought of it. Of me, rather. Where did I fall in Carter’s estimation?
My hands covered my body — or what little of it I could — and I was afraid to bend down and fetch the towel, for fear of exposing myself further.
“Um, could you,” I stuttered, words cementing in my throat. “Would you mind… my towel. It’s on the ground.”
With a practiced air, he knelt, still turned away from me, and reached an arm behind himself, successfully procuring the towel and holding it outstretched in one hand. He never once looked at me. Could this man really be any kind of threat? Anyone with just a little creep in them would’ve turned around and drank in the view. Carter’s eyes had stayed glued to the wall.
I took the towel from his hand, then knotted it around myself, this time making sure to hold on for dear life.
“You can turn around,” I told him through shallow breaths.
He did as instructed, pivoting back to face me. This time, I knew he stole a look at my towel-clad body, perhaps wondering what he’d missed by staring at the wall. In any case, it was over in a flash.
“I’m sorry about that. I don’t usually drop towels in strangers’ homes.”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, and I was forced to wonder just what he meant by that. They were my words, from when he’d picked us up in the desert, only now they were laden with more suggestion. If we kept stacking come-ons like verbal Jenga, this tower would topple over in no time.
“I should go change.”
He nodded. “And I’ll get dinner started. You’ll like my kid, Henry. He’s great.”
A grin spread across my lips. “If he’s anything like you, I’m sure I will.”
Carter restrained a laugh, and headed off, presumably to the kitchen.
Oh Phoebe, I thought with reproach. Whatever have you gotten yourself into?
CHAPTER 8
Carter
BRAISING STEAK is no easy feat when your eyes ain’t on the meat, but on the memory of some other succulent flesh you just saw.
I’d tried not to look, honest to God I had, but the towel had dropped too fast, and despite my fine upbringing, I’d caught a glimpse of Phoebe’s body. And phew, was something to write home about.
Don’t think about it, I told myself for the millionth time since I’d entered the kitchen. No point dwelling on what you ought not to have seen.
That was true. It wasn’t my image to pine over. Besides, the more I fixated on the rising swell of her ass, the more I allowed myself to think that the two of us could be something, and that wasn’t acceptable.
“Henry!” I called, desperate to escape my swirling thoughts. “Come in here, you’re gonna help me cook these veggies.”
He came bounding in with his usual high-octane energy, all blond hair and tiny limbs. He smiled up at me with what looked like every ounce of love in the universe coiled into a single gesture. It was familiar. That was how his mother once looked at me. Didn’t help matters that he was her spitting image — Henry didn’t get any of my Jewish or Latino looks. He was all English and Scottish, with zero spice. I tried not to let the reminder of his mother bother me, and instead channeled my energy into teaching him how to make good tamales and latkes.
“What am I making, Daddy?” he asked with glee.
“You’re gonna peel these carrots,” I told him, bending down and giving him a bag of carrots, a bowl and a peeler. Before you fret, Henry had been peeling carrots for months and knows to push away from his hand and he enjoys helping.
“Okay.”
He trotted over to the small kitchen table and began to peel with vigor. I don’t think he was at the age where he could figure out that these were chores, not fun activities. Maybe that’s just who he was — a happy kid with a sunny disposition. He didn’t get that from his father, either. Or perhaps he had, but if so, I couldn’t remember that man, because I wasn’t him anymore.
Soon, my thoughts were back to Henry’s lesson plans. I was always dreaming up new ways to keep his mind and body engaged and learning. The only sound in the kitchen was the sizzle of meat and the scratch of the peeler.
I was just thinking about hand-printing Henry a special coloring book with sketches I’d drawn up of Rough and Ready when Phoebe entered. Her hair was still a little damp, but the flush had gone from her cheeks, all traces of our encounter dissipated — physically, at least. She was dressed simply — a white T-shirt, relaxed jeans and sandals. She looked like the well-read Girl Next Door.
