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“Good.” His arms tightened around her slim waist. “Warn all you want.”
“This isn’t a good idea.”
“The worst,” he agreed.
“I mean it, Jay.”
“You’re gorgeous in the morning. Well, really, you’re gorgeous at night, too.”
“And you’re incorrigible.”
“I can only hope.” Turning her in his arms, he rested his forehead against hers. Morning sunlight glistened through the windows, and the odors of drying herbs and sizzling griddle cakes mixed with her feminine scents of soap and lavender. His lips found hers, and she opened her mouth as easily as a flower to the sun. The bathrobe slid open, and his hands slipped around her waist, feeling her bare skin, the weight of her firm breasts unencumbered by a bra.
“Jay,” she whispered as he lowered himself to his knees. She closed her eyes, and he kissed first the top, then the underside of one breast before leaving a wet kiss on the nipple. “Oooh,” she whispered, and he took the anxious bud into his mouth. He teased its tip with his tongue and teeth, and she leaned against the counter for support. With his hands, he parted the skirt of her robe, and his fingers skimmed the insides of her legs. She sagged a bit, and he reached higher just as she started.
“The breakfast,” she gasped, and looked down at him in horror. “Oh, no, no, no.” What had she been thinking, letting him kiss and touch and pet her so thoroughly right in the middle of the kitchen on a bright sunny day? The kids could have come downstairs or Mrs. Ellingsworth could have shown up on the back porch and caught them acting like a couple of hot-blooded teenagers. “For the love of Saint Jude,” she whispered, scraping the burning pancakes off the griddle and tossing them into the sink to be devoured by the disposal. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said, pouring the last of the batter on to the griddle.
“Don’t you?” He laughed wickedly, and she blushed to the roots of her hair.
“Look, Santini, instead of bothering me—”
“Bothering you? Oh, lady, you don’t know how much more I could bother you if I set my mind to it.”
Maddening. That was what he was. “Why don’t you make yourself useful? Pour orange juice or set the table or something.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” He kissed her cheek, and she shot him a glare she hoped could cut through steel. “Call me when it’s time to eat.” Taking his cup of coffee with him, he walked to the back porch, then sauntered to the garage. Pretty high-handed of him, she thought, until she saw him return with a carpenter’s belt slung around his waist and a ladder over his shoulder. Within minutes he’d propped the ladder against the side of the house and had climbed to the second story where he started pounding, presumably to secure one of the shutters surrounding one of her bedroom windows—a shutter that had hung at an angle ever since she’d moved in.
She shouldn’t trust him, she told herself, as she started frying bacon and added the last of the berries to her pancakes. She always suspected him of having his own agenda, and yet the memory of his touch caused her insides to melt.
With a clang of ancient pipes, water from an upstairs faucet began running. Obviously Stephen was up and showering.
Soon both of her children had padded downstairs. Christina was still in her pajamas and dragged her blanket with her. Stephen was wearing distressed jeans and a faded T-shirt. His hair was wet and his expression was sour, which wasn’t unusual and often didn’t disappear until his second helping of eggs or bowl of cereal.
“Mommy!” Christina ran across the kitchen and flung herself into her mother’s waiting arms.
“Good morning, kiddo.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Well, breakfast is ready.” Tiffany helped her daughter into a booster chair. “How about you?” she asked Stephen.
He slumped into one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the table and slid a glance toward the window where the ladder and the toes of J.D.’s boots were visible. “What is it?”
“Blueberry pancakes and bacon. Eggs if you want them.”
“No eggs!” Christina cried, shaking her head as Tiffany snagged an oven mitt from the counter and pulled out the platter of pancakes. She slid one on to a plate, drizzled it with blueberry syrup, then pronged a slice of bacon from the frying pan.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Tiffany said, placing the plate and a small fork on to the place mat in front of Christina. “What about you?” she asked Stephen. “Eggs?”
“Naw. Just pancakes.”
As she was fixing a plate for her son, she opened the window over the sink and invited J.D. to join them. Christina grinned as she saw her uncle climb down the ladder, but Stephen’s mouth tightened at the corners.
“Are we goin’ to the wedding?” he asked when the eggs were cooked and they were all seated around the table. He stared at Tiffany through a fringe of too-long hair.
“No.” She didn’t bother to elaborate. “I think you’d better go down to the barbershop this week.”
“I want to go to the wedding,” Christina insisted. “I want to see brides.”
