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The tour didn’ttake as long as Noelle imagined it would, but by the time they entered the kitchen, she was certain the pedometer on her watch had gotten a run for its money.
The house was magnificent, but the kitchen itself was a masterpiece. The size of three of her apartments put together, it held a granite island in the center, a rack of pots and pans hanging from above. Four people the size of Wes could lie down flat across it and still have room. And with Wes at around six foot two with broad shoulders, that was saying something.
The stainless steel appliances were spotless, the late morning sun shining off their surfaces via a picture window at one end of the room. Noelle smiled when she saw her recipe printed out and lying on the island. Measuring cups and ingredients were laid out as well, in a row like toy soldiers.
“Let me guess, you ran to the store and got all of this this morning.”
“Ah, I see. The teasing begins right out of the gates.” Wes nodded, his hands dug deep in his jean pockets. He leaned against one of the counters, his feet crossed at the ankles. He still exuded confidence, although Noelle sensed the situation was ruffling his feathers more than he was used to.
“I’m sorry. I’ll ease up.”
“No, no. Please don’t. No one else has. Besides, I can take it.”
Of that, she had no doubt. It hadn’t escaped her attention that he was wearing jeans and a dark blue Henley top, clothing she was sure had to be the most casual thing the man owned. A small pang of guilt hit her for saying something about his dress clothes before, but a bigger part of her was grateful. She still believed that Wes St. Claire in Armani was ideal, but Wes St. Claire in jeans was a whole other sight to behold. The Henley he wore accentuated the muscles that had held her while dancing, and seeing them was as enticing as being wrapped up in them.
She needed to be careful. Getting lost in thoughts of being held by Wes St. Claire would bring her nothing but trouble. She’d told Holly that their coffee date went well and she’d agreed to help him bake, but it was nothing more than friendship. It couldn’t be. He lived in New York. She lived in Marietta. Of course, telling herself to not think about him wasn’t keeping her from waking in the night all flustered from dreaming of him.
Feeling her face flush with heat, she turned from him toward the ingredients on the counter. “So, are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“He is ready, don’t you worry!”
Noelle looked up to see a woman in her early sixties flutter into the room. Her gray hair was in a loose bun on her head, her eyes shone with excitement, and if Noelle wasn’t mistaken, a dash of mischief.
“I am Glenna.” She shook Noelle’s hand then pulled her in for a hug. “Don’t you let him give you any trouble. If he does, he has to deal with me. And all the children know better.” She waved a finger in Wes’s direction, then turned back to Noelle. “I have bought everything you said you needed on your list. But if you need anything else, you tell me. I will go get it or send Wilson for it.”
“Oh, thank you. But we can go if we need to.”
Glenna raised her eyebrows and looked from Noelle to Wes. Her chuckle shook her ample bosom. “Oh yes, this one I like.”
With that, she pointed one last time at Wes and left the room.
“Well she’s…” Noelle couldn’t find the words for the whirlwind of a woman who had just come and left.
“She’s our Glenna.”
Noelle smiled, the look on Wes’s face not much different than his niece’s when she’d given the explanation for why her uncle didn’t know how to bake.
“That she is.” Noelle rubbed her hands together. “Let’s get started.”
Chapter Eight
Noelle looked aroundthe vast kitchen. “Where would I find aprons?”
Wes looked around the room then back at her. “I’m not sure.”
Right. The man didn’t know how to bake, or cook. Most likely, this was the first time he’d even been in this kitchen.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. This looks bad. I really don’t ever cook. But in all fairness, I don’t live here either so that’s another reason I wouldn’t know where anything is. And Glenna is notorious for losing aprons.”
“A valiant effort, brother of mine, but even I’m not buying it.”
Wes glared at his brother who entered the kitchen, a bobbing Annalise in tow.
“I’m Mike St. Claire.” He stuck out his hand for Noelle to shake. “We’ve met briefly at dance classes, but I know you have a lot of kids and parents to remember.”
Mike wore a Henley not unlike the one Wes had on, but his was black and matched his black jeans. He was an inch or so shorter than Wes, with dark hair and a trimmed dark beard that brought out his eyes.
She thought of Franchesca’s comment about Annalise’s dad. If she were here now, her friend might drool. Or faint. Or both. Noelle’s heart didn’t skip a beat when Mike was around the way it did with Wes though. Not that that mattered. They were friends.
