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“The full measure?”
“Nothing less.”
“Must have been disappointing if you’re inviting me into showers already.”
“Did I invite you?” He backs against the vanity counter, resting on it, the towel parting to show one thigh and the enticing shadow of more. “Mmm, no, I think I just asked if you were disappointed that I was finished. Now, if you’re inviting me back into the shower...”
I step toward him. “Let’s say I was. What would your answer be, Mr. Lowe?”
“My answer would be that, sadly, I’ve already washed up. I could use a coffee, though. Otherwise, I might just collapse on your sofa, and I have the feeling that would be unwise.” His lips purse, as if in thought. “Still tempting, though.”
His glittering eyes meet mine. “What do you say, Ms. Turner? Should I insist on a coffee or risk falling asleep in this towel?”
I flick a finger against his chest. “Tom Lowe, you are an unrepentant flirt. Poor Daisy never stood a chance, did she? Dare I ask where she is? Recovering from the exertions of the night?”
“Alas, no, as much as my ego would love that. She had errands to run. We have about an hour before she shows up.”
“An hour for coffee?” My eyes widen in mock innocence. “You must drink very slowly, Mr. Lowe.”
He chuckles. “Normally, no. But in this case, that coffee may take a while. I have a proposal for you. One that I think you’ll like.”
“Somehow, despite your flirting, I have the feeling this proposal doesn’t involve showers or couches.”
“Not yet.”
I flick his chest again, hard enough to make him yelp. “Un-re-pent-ant tease. Fine. I’ll bite.” I turn toward the door. “You might want to get used to that.”
His laughter follows me as I head downstairs to make coffee.
I sitat the table while Tom brews a pot for me. He’s pulled on his jeans and nothing else, so he’s bare-chested, barefoot and damp haired. A charming picture indeed. The bare chest may be a bit much with the air conditioning, but I get the message. It’s like a pretty girl undoing a button or two on her blouse. He’s putting on a display, one intended to distract me while reminding me of what I might win if I play my cards right.
As the coffee brews, Tom pokes around the kitchen until—with an ah-ha of victory—he finds the cookies. He sets four on a plate and microwaves them, saying, “Daisy’s cookies are so good this is possibly gilding the lily, but warm is always better with chocolate chip.”
There’s no hint of guilt or derision in his voice. He’s flirting with me using cookies made by the woman he slept with last night, and he’s blithely complimenting her baking.
Yep, CeCe, you deserve so much better. We both do.
It seems our Mr. Lowe is a bit of a player. For me, he is sexy and flirty and bold. For Daisy, he’s sweet as sugar, considerate and kind.
Which is the real you, Tom Lowe?
Tom brings over two mugs, mine fixed exactly as I like it. He grins, as if expecting a head pat for it. I take it with a regal nod. Accepting my due.
He nibbles a cookie and closes his eyes, mmm-mmming his appreciation. “My mom always said no one baked cookies like Maeve Turner. She guarded her recipe like a dragon hoarding its treasure. One year, at the state fair, someone said it was just the regular Toll House recipe. And she admitted it. Do you believe that?”
“Maeve was unpredictable.”
“Nah, she was totally predictable. She admitted it because she was saying that everyone else was welcome to use ‘her’ recipe and it wouldn’t make any difference. It was the baker that counted, not a list of instructions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She only ever taught one person how to make those cookies.” He takes another bite. “Her granddaughter.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “Do you remember making these for me?”
He waves off my answer. “That’s right. You barely remember me. That’s okay. I didn’t remember you, either. I thought I did, but then we met, and it was like looking at a stranger. People change, you know?”
The back of my neck prickles.
He continues, “It’s disappointing when that happens. You’re so sure that you’d remember a friend, even if they were a kid when you last saw them. You think your eyes will meet in a crowd and your brain will scream, That’s her.”
