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“Nope. Homemade.” Tristan eyed his brother’s paint-splattered shirt. “We’re having a guest for dinner, so you might want to change your shirt. Or I can make you a plate to take back to your studio.” Which was where Parker usually ate dinner, and even better. He didn’t need his brother observing and commenting on his non-date night.
“We are? Who?”
“Skye.”
Everly looked up at the ceiling. “The sky is coming to dinner?”
He chuckled. The kid was a trip. “No. You remember Miss Skylar?”
Everly nodded. “I like her. Does she like pickles?”
“I don’t know. You can ask her.”
Parker was looking at him with a smirk on his face. “So you’re finally making a move?”
What was it with people thinking they knew his business? “Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Miss Mabel put us on a ridiculous planning committee, and we’re having our first meeting tonight.”
“Uh-huh. I think I’ll stick around. Going to be fun watching you pretend you don’t want to get in her pa...” He glanced at Everly. “In her pantry.” He grinned when Tristan snorted. “Best I could do off the top of my head.”
“Does she have pickles in her pantry?” Everly said.
Parker made a choking sound, and Tristan refused to look at his brother. If he did, they’d both burst into laughter. He turned and got plates out of the cabinet. When he could safely talk without laughing, he said, “If it comes up, I made the lasagna myself.”
“All right, but who really made it?”
“I did. Really.” At Parker’s raised brows, he sighed. “With Katie telling me what to do.”
“All that effort and you want me to believe you’re not interested in Skylar’s pantry?” He smirked as he pushed off the stool. “I’m going to change my shirt.”
Tristan wanted to bang his head on the counter. Whose bright idea was it to invite her to dinner, anyway?
Chapter Twelve
Skye parked in front of the Church brothers’ house and stared at it for a few minutes. She’d driven by countless times and had always admired it. The three-story Victorian-style house was painted pale gray, the trim and front door a deep burgundy, and the windowsills white. It was a striking house, the paint colors perfect for it. She wondered if Parker had chosen them.
A wide porch stretched across the front, and dark green ferns hung between each post. A swing with a dark blue seat cushion and blue-and-burgundy pillows swayed with the evening breeze on the right side of the porch. What a perfect place to curl up with a book. Other chairs and wrought-iron tables were scattered around. If the outside of the house was this perfect, imagine what the inside had to look like.
If you’d get out of the car and go inside, you could see for yourself. She’d almost called and cancelled, probably should have, but here she was. She’d gone home early, bathed, shaved her legs, and then had spent a freaking hour deciding what to wear. You’d think this was a date or something.
Annoyed with herself and needing to remind both herself and Tristan that this wasn’t a date in any way whatsoever, she’d gone with her sheriff’s uniform. The hair she’d washed, blow dried, and then added some curls to with her hot iron was now in its usual bun at the back of her neck. She even had on her black, soft-leather boots.
Now that she was here, she regretted her clothing choice. Jeans and a T-shirt wouldn’t have given off any vibes of the I-think-you’re-hot-and-do-you-want-to-play-with-me-again kind, never mind that she did want to.
The door opened, and Tristan stepped out. He stopped, braced his legs apart, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he stared back at her.
Well, too late to take off now. She grabbed the bottle of wine and bakery box and as she walked toward him, her hungry eyes—and boy, were they hungry for this man—roamed over him. His T-shirt wasn’t a size too small like some big-muscled men wore, but it did nothing to hide his broad shoulders. She’d never seen him in shorts before, and who knew how sexy a tall, barefoot man wearing cargo shorts was? Well, she did now.
“Thought I was going to have to bring your dinner out to your car for a minute there,” he said, then belatedly added as his gaze took in her uniform, “Sheriff.”
Ignoring his dig, she stopped a few feet from him. Even a few feet weren’t enough to keep his scent from washing over her. Soap and either cologne or a spicy aftershave was a potent combination. “Good evening, Chief.”
His lips thinned. “How about for tonight, we’re just Tristan and Skye?”
“I suppose we can do that since you’re feeding me lasagna.”
“Hmm.” He scratched his chin. “You can be bribed with lasagna. Good to know.”
“There’s something about a police chief bribing a sheriff that doesn’t seem right.”
