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Mase’s wife wasn’t beastly. As a matter of fact, she was perhaps one of the most adorable females he ever laid eyes on.
She was a little thing and he had the unusual urge to lecture her for inviting a strange man, twice her size, into her home when Mase wasn’t around. What was she thinking? He agreed to come in only because he had the sudden ridiculous fear that some other beggar might come knocking and feed her a line of bullshit and trusting little Libby might end up inviting someone truly dangerous into her home. Oddly, something about her tapped into his protective instincts. This little girl needed someone to keep an eye on her.
The house entrance was ri-god-damn-diculous. He let out a slow whistle that echoed all the way up to the thirty-foot ceilings. It was homey, but also sort of like a museum. Nothing seemed out of place. Maybe the missus just finished cleaning.
“The kitchen’s this way,” she announced and he followed.
She only came up to his midsection, not even reaching his chest. Her feet were bare and her toes were painted pink. Girlie. She wore cute frayed daisy dukes and a sweater that hung precariously low over her one arm. Her bare shoulder hinted she had nothing underneath. Wild golden curls bounced with each step she took. Kudos to Mase for at least finding a woman with a bangin’ body. If he were going to switch teams, he clearly made out in the draft.
Sean had the impression of lots of white and open space. He was too busy sizing up his old friend’s wife to really take in the house. He was sure it was what American dreams were made of if Mase’s knack to adhere to pursuing a goal was still as sharp as it once was. If anything, his boy had an incredible ability for sticking to his guns and keeping his word. He promised one day he would have an easy life with a good partner and nice home. Sean had no doubt he had walked into just that.
Libby stopped and Sean plowed right into her. Nice. His hands reflexively grabbed her shoulders so he didn’t knock her down and hoped he didn’t trample her little feet “I’m so sorry.”
She quickly extricated herself from his grip and turned to face him. She took a step back and smiled, but he could tell he made her incredibly uncomfortable. Nice move, bonehead.
“I wasn’t looking where we were going. I hope I didn’t step on your feet.”
She looked down at her feet and back at him. Her hand held a cordless phone he hadn’t noticed earlier and she tapped it against her thigh nervously.
“Maybe I should just go,” he suggested. “Thank you for the hospitality, but maybe it would be best if you just tell Mase I stopped by—”
“No!” she said sharply, as if the idea of him leaving was more frightening than the idea of him staying. She softened. “I mean, no, please stay. My husband would want you to stay. Let me make you something to eat. Why don’t you have a seat at the counter?”
She seemed a bit jumpy, so he nodded and began to pull out one of the three stools tucked under the marble countertop. This kitchen was like something out of the rich and famous.
“Not that one!”
Sean froze. What just happened? He didn’t move, but looked at her from the corner of his eye for clarification. She took a deep breath and, in a more controlled voice, said, “Not that stool. That one is Mason’s. I think you would be happier on the third stool.”
She smiled as if the third stool was the best stool in the whole world and surely sitting there would bring him great rewards. Okaaaay. He didn’t give a shit if he sat on the fucking floor at this point. He was so tired he could weep.
He sat and she began to pull items down from cabinets she could barely reach. More than once he caught himself admiring the creamy slice of her ass that peeked out past the hem of her shorts when she went up on her tiptoes. A gentleman would offer to help, but something had him hesitating. Plus, he liked watching her. Sean was a people person. He liked sitting back and learning people not by what they claimed they were about, but by how they actually acted.
She made fast work of making two turkey sandwiches for him. He found it curious the way she made them, each of them one step at a time, almost mechanically. Her lips silently counted: one, two, three, slices of turkey then did the same for the next.
She placed one piece of Swiss on top of the meat and used a knife to carefully cut off the two inches that hung over the edge. Doing the same to the other, she then lined the discarded pieces beside the bread and lined up two more slices of cheese. Her fingers squared them up and sliced the two pieces of cheese so that when placed with the overhanging pieces they would be exactly the same size as the slice below. He wondered why she didn’t just cut one identical piece to the lower one, or better yet, just throw it all on there.
