Whisper of Love (The Bradens at Peaceful Harbor, Book Five)

by Melissa Foster

  “Thanks, buddy. Tempe, would you mind grabbing the salad bowl?”

  “I’ll get glasses, too.” She followed them outside and set the glasses and salad bowl on the picnic table. “I assumed he liked mac and cheese because I saw the boxes of it in the pantry.”

  Nash set the plates on the table. “Those would be mine.”

  She laughed. “That’s cute. I can’t imagine a big guy like you eating macaroni and cheese from a box. Those noodles are tiny. You can probably eat a box in three bites.”

  He straightened the bill of his ball cap, amused by her assessment, and said, “It just so happens that I like those tiny noodles. And yeah, maybe I eat three boxes at once. Four sometimes. But I’ll bet you’ve got your own comfort foods.” He lifted the upside-down bucket off the candles he lit during dinner each night, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and lit them. “I’m guessing a pint of ice cream, or maybe cake. Chocolate cake.”

  “You’re pretty far off.” She pointed to the house. “I’ll get drinks. What do you usually have with dinner?”

  “I’ve got it.” He took the porch steps two at a time. “What would you like?”

  “Anything. I’m not picky.”

  He went inside and returned a few minutes later with a pitcher of iced tea, two bottles of apple juice, and a bottle of water.

  “Thirsty?” she teased.

  He poured juice for Phillip and set a napkin beside him. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  “Iced tea is fine, thanks.” She sat across from them as he filled her glass.

  “Are you going to keep your comfort food a secret?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she said coyly. “You’ll think it’s weird.”

  “I’m sure it’s no weirder than Phillip preferring steak to mac and cheese.” He put his arm around Phillip and pulled him closer on the bench. “Right, buddy?”

  Phillip smiled around a mouthful of stir-fry.

  “Sliced peaches and whipped cream,” she said. “But not just any peaches. Fresh-picked, with the kind of whipped cream that comes from a can. You know, the fake stuff.”

  The thought of Tempest and whipped cream together took his mind straight to the gutter. “And you think the idea of me eating mac and cheese is cute?” he teased. “You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who likes anything fake.”

  She looked down at her plate. “How can you know that after knowing me two days?”

  He was wondering that himself. “I don’t know. You just seem very real.”

  She met his gaze. An ocean of deep thoughts swam in her eyes. He wanted to dive in and learn all her secrets. But he was acutely aware of his son sitting beside him, listening to every word out of his mouth. He dropped his gaze to his plate, breaking their sizzling connection.

  “What happens in the winter when you need comfort food?” He tried to ask it casually, but even he heard the thickness in his tone.

  “This is so good,” she said far too dramatically, as if she were trying to jostle the heat from her bones, too. “I can’t believe I got lucky enough to find a landlord who can sing and cook.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that other than saying he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find a gorgeous housemate who breezed into his life and swept the dust off all the long-ago buried parts of himself. So he said nothing at all and gave her a curious glance, urging her to answer his question.

  “Winter comfort food? Ice cream.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Usually on top of chocolate cake.”

  They both laughed.

  “I want cake,” Phillip said with a toothy grin, giving Nash the perfect excuse to spend more time with Tempest.

  “It’s late, buddy, and it takes a while for cake to bake. How about if we make it together? Then we’ll bake it while you sleep and you can eat a piece for breakfast?”

  “With fwosting?” Phillip still had trouble with his r’s.

  “Of course with frosting.”

  Phillip looked hopefully at Tempe.

  “What do you say, Tempe?” Nash asked. “Are you up for a little baking?”

  She looked at Phillip for a long moment, each second ticking by in slow motion.

  Say yes. Just frigging say yes.

  She finally said, “I think I’d like that.”

  FLIP STOOD ON a stool between Tempest and Nash, helping to stir the ingredients. He was a quiet child, but his facial expressions were priceless as he hummed along to the radio.

  “Careful, Phillip.” Nash showed him how to use the side of the spatula to scoop the ingredients toward the center. A big skill for such a little boy.

  Her ears perked up. Did he say Phillip? She watched the two of them intently, hoping to see Nash say his son’s name. Nash’s hands covered Flip’s, and his broad chest swallowed his son whole, as together they guided the spatula around the edges of the bowl.

  “That’s it, Phillip,” he said slowly.

  Phillip. Holy cow, she’d been calling him the wrong name this whole time! He said it so fast it sounded like Flip. No wonder Phillip called himself Flip.

  She moved beside him and whispered, “You let me call him the wrong name?”

  Nash’s lips tipped up. “It wasn’t wrong. And it’s cute.”

  “But it’s not his name.” She moved back to Phillip’s other side. “I’m sorry I called you by the wrong name, Phillip.”

  Phillip’s brows knitted.

  “I called you Flip, but your name is Phillip,” she said it slowly. Nash said his name so fast she wasn’t sure he realized his name was Phillip.

  “Flip,” he said with the cutest grin she’d ever seen. “Flip Morgan.”

  That soft “r” killed her.

  “At least he comes by it honestly.” Chuckling, Nash pressed a kiss to Phillip’s temple, then whispered, “You did a perfect job, buddy. It’ll be the best cake ever.”

  Spending time with Nash and Phillip was different than she’d expected it to be. Better. Much better. Witnessing such tender, genuine moments reminded her of the way her parents had always been with her. Nash was strikingly different at home than he had been when they’d had ice cream in town. She watched him now, as he let Phillip try to use the spatula on his own and laughing when he flicked chocolate over the edge. Nash scooped the batter off the edge of the bowl and let Phillip lick it off his finger.

  “Now we need to add the butter.” Nash began mashing the butter with a fork.

  “If you warm it, you can whip it.”

  Nash’s eyes blazed down at her, a sinful smile curling his lips. Thunder and lightning collided inside her. She must have looked as light-headed as she felt, because he reached around Phillip and touched her arm.

  “I prefer to warm it up slowly,” he said with a raspy voice. “No whipping necessary.”

  His hand slid off her arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps, but his volcanic stare remained trained on her. She mentally ran through what had just happened, trying to decipher how she’d earned that incredibly hot look. That voice. Your touch.

  “Tempe?”

  She blinked repeatedly to try to break the spell she’d fallen under and met his amused expression.

  “You must be lost in a really great thought. I had to say your name twice.”

  Like a smack to the forehead, she realized what she’d said to earn that predatory look. “Butter. I meant the butter.” Ugh! She sounded as flustered as she felt.

  “Mm-hm.” He pointed to the electric mixer on the counter beside her. “Can you please hand me that? As much as I like to warm things up slowly, I’m afraid this needs a little speeding up if Phillip’s going to get to bed on time.”

  The furtive glance he tossed her sent an electrifying shudder straight to her core. She turned and began putting away the ingredients they’d used to escape the nerve-racking sparks before they set the kitchen on fire.

  By the time they’d filled the cake pans with batter she was finally breathing normally again.

  She opened the preh
eated oven and lifted one cake pan from the counter. “I usually do it on the bottom. Do you like it on top or bottom?”

  He stepped around Phillip, his wicked smile more intimate than a kiss as he leaned in close and said, “Careful, Tempe. That’s a loaded question.”

  “Wha—” Her jaw gaped. “The rack! Do you like it on top or bottom?” She pushed the cake pan onto the bottom rack.

  “Hey, I’ll take a rack on top, bottom, sideways…”

  She rolled her eyes, and he laughed as he put the other cake pan in the oven.

  “How did you grow up with brothers and not learn to watch what you said?” He lifted Phillip from the stool and set him on the floor, then tapped his butt with his hand. “Say good night to Tempe and go on up. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Phillip hugged her around her legs, and she just about melted despite her hammering heart. “Good night, Tempe.”

  “Good night, sweetheart. Thanks for letting me help you bake.” After Phillip left the kitchen, she glared at Nash. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  He stepped closer, his nearness both exciting and agonizing. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “You’re not,” came out way too breathless. “I mean, you are, but not in a bad way.”

  His eyes filled with heat again. “Is there a good way?”

  I’m starting to think there might be. She tried to hold his gaze, but she was too drawn to him, the urge to touch him almost impossible to resist. She glanced at the dirty dishes on the counter and saw her escape. Stepping around him, she turned on the faucet and busied herself scrubbing the measuring cup. “You shouldn’t keep Phillip waiting.”

  “Tempest,” he said apologetically.

  She feigned a laugh, hoping it sounded casual but fearing it just made her sound a little off-balanced. “Don’t think twice about it. You were only reacting to what I said.”

  He hesitated behind her, rendering her frozen, all thoughts and actions impossible. She desperately wanted to clear the air, and at the same time, she wanted to become invisible. When he finally left the kitchen, she let out a fast breath and grabbed the edge of the sink for stability. His heavy steps ascended the stairs. Tempest spun around, grabbed the bowl with the cake batter remnants, and dove in, scooping out whatever chocolate batter was left. She needed pounds of it. A bathtub full. Who was she kidding? She needed a vat of chocolate to dive into.

  Her cell phone rang and she pulled it from her pocket with her left hand. The right was covered in chocolate. Shannon. Thank goodness.

  “Shan?”

  “Hi. What’s wrong? And why are you whispering?”

  “Because I rented a room from a guy I’m way too attracted to, and he’s right upstairs.”

  Shannon shrieked. Tempest pulled the phone from her ear.

  “Shannon!” she whispered harshly. “This is serious.” She licked chocolate from her knuckles and then ran them over the bottom of the bowl to soak up more.

  “Okay, sorry.” Shannon giggled. “Hold on.”

  She heard her sister tell someone what she’d said; then she heard the sound of kissing.

  “You called me when you and Steve were making out?”

  “No.” Shannon giggled, and another noisy kiss came through the phone. “I called you to tell you…I’m engaged!”

  Tempest squealed. Immediately realizing her mistake, she ran onto the back porch. “Congratulations,” she said quieter. She heard the thump, thump, thump of Nash rushing down the stairs. “Don’t do that to me. Nash is putting his son to be—”

  Nash flew out the back door, his eyes darting over the yard as he pushed in front of her, his arm outstretched, keeping her behind him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Uh-oh,” Shannon said.

  Tempest lowered the phone as Nash turned around, his eyes sweeping over her face, her body, and finally, landing on the now empty bowl. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “My sister just told me she was engaged. I hope I didn’t scare Phillip. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scream.”

  “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.” He pulled her against him, squishing her against all his hard muscles. The bowl tumbled from her grip, landing on the porch with a clank. He stepped back, a smile creeping across his face. “Phillip’s fine.”

  He reached up and brushed his thumb over her cheek. Eyeing the bowl at their feet, he put his thumb in his mouth. He gave her a look so hot her knees buckled. Holy cow, now she needed more chocolate. Stat.

  He picked up the bowl, giving her one last long look that nearly melted her panties right off, and disappeared into the house, leaving her reeling.

  She breathed deeply, hearing the faint sound of his boots ascending the stairs again. Lifting the phone to her ear, she whispered, “Shan.”

  “Was that him? What happened? What did he do? All that silence was so hot. I think I burned my fingers on my phone.”

  “Not helpful.” Tempest could still feel her heart thundering against her chest. “But, yeah. It was hot. Really hot.” Swallowing hard, she said, “I think I’m in over my head.”

  Chapter Six

  COOL AIR BLEW in through the open door to the deck, carrying the sounds of Tempest playing the guitar. Nash paced his bedroom floor, trying to get his head on straight. After putting Phillip to bed and taking the cake out of the oven, he’d stood in a long, cold shower, trying to escape the feel of Tempest in his arms. It was an impossible task. He could still feel her soft curves pressed against him, and on its heels, the fear that had taken hold when he’d heard her scream. He needed to get his head on straight before he did something stupid and scared her off altogether.

  He stepped outside, the music coiling around him like a tether, drawing him toward the sound of her voice. Damn she sounded sweet, as ethereal and clear as whispered promises. She sat sideways on the bench, one leg outstretched, the other bent at the knee, her guitar cradled in her lap. Golden waves curtained her face as she strummed out a tune, stopping every few beats to scribble something in a notebook. His pulse ratcheted up with every step, and when she glanced up, her hair hiding one eye, the silence took on a beat all its own.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She smiled, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. “Hi,” she said, and looked down at her guitar.

  He’d embarrassed her by looking at her like he wanted her, and he hated himself for it. He wanted her to feel comfortable, and he had acted inappropriately. He wasn’t an animal. He could control his primal urges. At least he’d sure as hell try.

  “Look at that. You do have a nice head of hair.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, unsure how to respond.

  “You wear your hat so often, I wondered if you had a bald spot you were covering up.” She glanced up with the tease.

  Breathing a little easier, he sat by her feet. “Not yet. That’s a nice tune.”

  “Thanks.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and it immediately sprang free. “I’m writing it for a client.”

  “I’m sure they’ll like it.”

  “He’s in a coma.” She looked away.

  “Oh shit. I’m sorry.” Way to break the ice.

  “Me too. He’s only seven.”

  She spoke so softly, he wanted to move closer just to catch every syllable, but he didn’t dare. “I didn’t realize you dealt with such heavy stuff. That can’t be easy.”

  “Recovery is never easy. But it’s harder for the patients and their loved ones than it is for me. I just try to help ease the pain, and hopefully bring him back from wherever he’s gone. I hope one day to do more with my children’s music group and less hospital work. It definitely puts me in a better mental place, but it’ll take time to build the group up to a sustainable size. So, for now, I’m working more with hospital patients.”

  “Do they think he’ll pull out of it?”

  She tucked that stray lock of hair behind her ear again, and when
she looked down at her guitar, it sprang free. “Every patient is different. They’re optimistic.”

  He couldn’t resist leaning forward and tucking her hair behind her ear. She lifted those clear blue eyes that made his stomach go squirrely and drew in a quiet breath, holding it for a beat before letting it out. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  There were so many things he wanted to say. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable, you’re so beautiful, and I want to feel your lips on mine topped the list. But all that came out was, “How do you know what songs will help?”

  A sweet, sexy sigh escaped before she answered. “I don’t, really. When a family’s in pain, they tend to say more than they realize.”

  Or they don’t say anything at all.

  After they’d lost PJ and his parents had taken him out of school to live on the boat, they’d stopped talking about his brother. He knew it was too painful for them, and poured his emotions into writing songs. He couldn’t sing them around his parents, so he’d eventually learned to repress those, too, until they’d moved back to the mainland and he’d begun traveling. When Phillip was born, lyrics had flowed like a river, and he’d written song after song. But when Alaina left, anger had clouded his every thought, and he’d stopped playing guitar. Now, as he listened to Tempest talk about writing lyrics and helping others, he realized that with the exception of the love he had for Phillip and his mother, after Alaina left, he’d stopped feeling altogether.

  “A picture of who the person is comes together,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts, “and I put it into lyrics. I never know if I have it right, but I’m not sure there is right or wrong when it comes to reaching a person. I just go with what I feel.”

  He glanced at the notebook, where she’d written musical notes and lyrics, along with doodles of hearts and swirls. Hell if that didn’t seem like her. “Can I take a look?”

  “Do you read music?” She handed him the notepad.

  “A bit.”