This time, at least, it seemed he was gone for good.
* * *
It took about three seconds after opening the door to Bree that evening for Spence to figure out that the flush in her cheeks had nothing to do with him.
Oh, she was polite. She said hello and let him take her coat and gave Furgus a brisk pat on the head. But the spots of color in her cheeks were too concentrated. The glitter in her eyes was too sharp. And when he gave her arm an experimental stroke as he helped her with her coat, she stayed stiff and distant.
Okay. So either she had changed her mind or something had gone wrong. He hoped to hell that whatever it was had nothing to do with him. Not just because he wanted to see what sparks they might be able to light if they were on the same page, but because everything about her screamed unhappy.
Spence might have a wide streak of selfish, but even he didn’t want to see folks unhappy. Unless they had earned it, of course, in which case, more power to the misery.
He had planned a meal that could go any way, timing-wise, either as soon as she arrived or—his own personal preference—after spending some time working up a major appetite. Seeing her now, he was pretty sure that both food and wine were going to be required before anything else could happen. Also, time, distance, and conversation.
Well, he had said he wanted to be upfront with her before anything else happened. This could be the opening he needed.
“Come on.” He led her back into the kitchen. “I need a few minutes to cook the chicken, but there’s wine and a cheese plate ready in case you’re starving.”
“That sounds good. Great, even.” She shook back her hair, wriggling her shoulders as she perched on one of the stools at the island. “I should be a good guest and offer to help, but honestly, right now I think I would be more of a detriment than anything else. So please excuse my bad manners and pour me a very large glass of whatever.”
“With pleasure. And don’t sweat it. I don’t like working around anyone else, anyway.”
A hint of a smile tugged on her lips. “Why am I not surprised?”
He filled a glass with semi-sweet Riesling, pushed it toward her, and raised the bottle in her direction. “Salut.”
“None for you?”
“Oh, I will. But not until I’m done handling onions.”
She looked into the depths of her glass longingly, as if debating holding out until he could join her, then shook her head and helped herself to a healthy mouthful. Good. There was a time and a place for politeness, but this wasn’t it.
“Rough day?” He plugged in the indoor grill, pulled the plate of appetizers from the fridge, and set it before her. Her eyes lit up in a way that had his gut tightening.
“It just got a whole lot better.”
Oh, Bree. I can do so much more for you than just feed you stuffed dates.
“Is it something you need to talk about?”
“Probably.” She picked up a date. “But not yet.”
Worked for him.
“What’s your average day like?” He tossed skewers of chicken and vegetables on the grill, closed it, and set the timer. When he turned back to her, he saw that she was staring at his hands. Assessingly. Like she was measuring them.
Her gaze flitted to his feet.
“Size eleven,” he said without losing a beat. “Listening to old wives’ tales?”
Another hint of a smile flitted across her mouth. Maybe there was hope after all.
“My average day?” She took another sip of wine, her eyes closing appreciatively. “Oh, that’s delightful. My days are pretty full. A lot of grading and clerical work. Lectures. Psych 100 seminars.”
From the way her mouth twisted, he could guess how high that ranked on her joy list.
“Too many meetings, of course, and then my own research and prep for my dissertation. Those are the key ingredients. The actual proportions shift from day to day. How about you?”
“Depends on the time of year. Right now, it’s a lot of paperwork, lots of planning, ordering things. Getting ready for the busy season.”
“Which is—summer?”
“Spring is the wild one. Getting rid of the winter debris, prepping grounds, adding new plants. Plus spring is the time everyone decides that this is the year they’re going to make their grounds look good, so, plenty of new clients.”
“You say that like there’s a better time to make that decision.”
“There is. Fall. That’s when folks should be looking ahead and having us come take a look, so we can get a jump on any changes that need to be made before the ground freezes. But I’m not in the business of telling people that they waited too long. We work with them whenever they call.”
“Which season do you like best?”
He had an immediate vision of Bree in a skimpy bathing suit, stretched out on a blanket on the beach with a straw hat tipped over her eyes, a book in her hands, and a lot of bare skin beckoning.
“Summer has its moments.”
“True.”
“But if I had to pick one, I’d go with fall. People freak out because it means winter’s coming, but you know, there’s something to be said for slowing things down and hanging out in front of the fireplace.”
This time her smile was a little wider, a little looser. “In summer you can have bonfires.”
“Yeah, you can. But you also have mosquitoes.”
“Greedy little bastards.” She nodded. “Though the smoke usually keeps them away.”
“It helps. But if you’re making s’mores in a fireplace and the marshmallow goes rogue and you end up licking it off, it’s a lot more enjoyable when there’s no insects around.”
“Why, because the mosquitoes get stuck in the goo?”
“No.” He placed one finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Because I’m talking about licking chocolate and crumbs off of someone else’s fingers. Or elsewhere.” He tipped her chin higher while mentally rearranging his dessert plans. He had marshmallows, didn’t he? “You would be amazed at all the places that stuff can land.”
There was an encouraging amount of humor in her eyes. “And the mosquitoes?”
“Well, sometimes you have to get rid of some clothes to get all the gooey places.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. Fireplaces are definitely the way to go.”
“You do know that the only bonfires I attend are with my sisters.”
Not the answer he’d been expecting. “So next time you’re at one with them, you’ll be making s’mores and you’ll remember this and start laughing. And they’ll want to know what’s so funny. And”—he paused for dramatic effect—“why you’re blushing.”
“No, my sisters are more likely to come up with their own explanations.” Her smile widened. “Ones that would leave your story in the dust.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Did I show you my fireplace the last time you were here?”
“No.” She moved his hand from her chin, but gave it a heartening squeeze as she did. “But if there’s a bearskin rug in front of it, I’m reporting you to the cliché police.”
“Not to worry.” He turned to pull the chicken from the grill. “That’s where I keep my blow-up dolls.”
The coughing, snorting sound behind him told him that he’d scored a direct hit.
“Fine,” she said in a strained voice. “You win this round.”
“I didn’t know this was a competition.”
“Like hell you didn’t. Could I have more wine?”
“Only if it doesn’t make you sleepy.”
“It does not.”
He held the bottle over her glass. “What does it do to you, Bree?”
“Well, for one thing, it helps me forget that my asshole father came to see me today.”
Chapter Nine
Spence filled her glass to the top.
She plucked a date from the plate and stared into it so intently that he almost started believing in X-ray vision. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is all so nice.” She waved, encompassing the brick cooking arch, the candles on the island, the wine and dates. “And there’s nothing I can do about him, and you’re actually making me laugh—”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Not surprised. Grateful. And I don’t want to talk about him.” She bit into the date. “Is that blue cheese in here?”
“It is.” He focused on plating the food to hide any signs of his internal debate.
On the one hand, this might not be a great night to drop another Rob bomb on her.
On the other hand, if she was already pissed off, telling her now could get it all over with at once and avoid messing up another night.
On the third hand, she might need a distraction. He was hell at distractions.
On the fourth hand, what the hell was he doing, thinking about future nights?
Sure, he had told Livvy that he didn’t go into things simply looking to get laid. It wasn’t totally true—no guy on the planet would give his sister a hundred percent truthful answer to that one—but on the whole, it was pretty accurate. He wasn’t looking for anything long-term, not at the moment, but never—okay, rarely—did he get involved with a woman unless he could see himself spending at least a little time with her. Definitely more time than was required simply to boink her, to use Livvy’s term.
Bree was a different case, though. A totally different circumstance. And while a couple of months ago he would have sworn up and down that he had nothing in common with her, that as far as he was concerned she was an uptight, self-righteous academic who was all theory and no action, well, now he knew there was a lot more to her. And not just because of the interlude that had left him needing to avoid the sight of filing cabinets for a while.
Bree was . . . well. She was more than he’d expected. He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he wanted to keep exploring. Find out what else might lie beneath that fancy-talking surface.
He was intrigued.
Which meant he had to take the chance.
He slid her plate in front of her, grabbed his own food and glass, and took the stool beside her.
“Bon appétit,” he said, raising his wineglass.
She leaned back ever so slightly. “No candlelit dining room? I’m surprised.”
So was he. Not that she had anticipated the whole seduction scenario, but that he had changed course and abandoned the white linens and candles he’d set up in the other room. Somehow, the kitchen, complete with pans on the stove and the lingering smells from the grill, seemed like the right choice.
After all, he and Bree had a whole lot more than dirty dishes between them.
“I did set that all up,” he admitted. “But this feels more like you.”
She glanced around, her gaze lingering on the brick, the pans on the stove, the cluttered prep area, and he winced.
Then she looked down. At their hands resting so close on the island, on their knees bumping up against each other. A soft smile crept across her face.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do believe you’re right.”
It was the first time in his memory that she had said that. It felt ridiculously warming.
“To fresh starts?” He raised his glass once more.
“Haven’t we done that already?”
“We said the words.”
She speared a chunk of zucchini and lifted her fork in salute. “You’re right. There’s words, and then there’s actions.”
Her lips closed over the food and he thought, yeah, actions were sounding a whole lot more appealing right then.
“Oh wow. This is . . . Is this really a zucchini? Because I have to tell you, these are usually on my Do Not Consume list, but these . . . wow. I could eat this every day.”
Again with being inordinately flattered. “Funny. You’re the second woman to praise my cooking in one day.”
“Oh?”
If she was trying to sound casual, she was failing miserably. He laughed. It was kind of nice to hear that reaction.
“Livvy was here for lunch.”
“Oh, of course.”
Yep. Way too casual. He shoved in an extra-large bite of chicken in case he got caught grinning.
“How is she doing?”
That, he was pretty sure, was as close as Bree would ever come to asking about the night at the pizza place. He couldn’t give her details, but he could provide reassurance.
“All good,” he said firmly.
She nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Her kids must be, what, eight and ten now?”
“Ten and fourteen.”
“You’re kidding. How the heck did that happen?”
“Hey, you think you’re surprised; try walking in my shoes. I’m their guardian.”
She made a choking sort of noise. “Seriously? You?”
He shouldn’t be offended. After all, that was precisely the way he wanted people to see him—as a badass businessman who wasn’t afraid to do whatever it took to close the deal. Still, it bugged him.
“I said yes when Emma was born,” he said, deliberately ignoring her implication. “That was terrifying in its own way. But now that she’s a teenager—well—all I can say is that there isn’t a brother in the world more concerned about his sister’s health and safety.”
She laughed and speared a cherry tomato. Good. If she was laughing, she might not notice that he had completely failed to mention Carl.
They chatted easily as they ate, catching up on old acquaintances, touching on but not diving into the subject of the food forest. It was light and easy, and by the time his plate was clean, almost all the tension seemed to have rolled off her shoulders, leaving her looser, more relaxed. What surplus energy was still buzzing around her was the good sort that started a low-level hum rolling through him, simmering deep and ready to grow to a boil at any moment.
It was a damned fine feeling.
Her sigh was the kind every cook longs to hear at the end of the meal. “That was amazing. Thank you. If I’d known you could cook like that, I would have made peace with you ages ago.”
“There’s a reason a secret weapon is called a secret.”
“Good point.” She sat back on her stool, twirling back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm. The lines in her forehead deepened again.
“You know,” she said slowly, “I just realized that I was here the last time I talked to my father, too.”
“I’d forgotten.”
She grimaced. “I’m jealous.”
His internal debate—distract her or get the truth out of the way?—was swift and decisive.
“Bree.” He caught her hands in his. “Not that I want to keep coming back to the topic of your father, but there’s something I need to tell you. And then, as far as I’m concerned, we never have to mention his name again.”
“You already told me about the committee.”
“Yeah.” He squeezed her fingers. “But I never told you why I’m on it.”
Her laugh was too short, too brittle. “You don’t have to. Believe me, I don’t have any problem with—”
“Bree, your father is the reason my parents had to leave town.”
Her eyes went blank. Not long. Just enough to know that she was feeling this a lot more than she was willing to admit.
“How?” She blinked. “Or . . . why? I mean . . . I know they must have been hurt by the things he did, but they were . . . How would his actions have anything to do with them?”
“Your dad invested in James Landscaping.” When she didn’t seem to understand the implication, he explained. “Back when a lot of Rob’s income might be considered . . . questionable.”
He saw her processing the words, following the consequence trail. “You mean like . . . Okay, believe it or not, I don’t know a lot about illegal money . . . things . . . but do you mean he was using your dad’s business as a . . . a money-laundering thing?”
“It was never clear. My dad swore up and down he had no idea Rob was doing anything wrong. All he saw was, old friend, business that needed to expand, all those good things.”
“I take it the authorities didn’t see it the same way.”
“Let’s say they were a lot more suspicious than my folks ever were. Especially when Dad started paying back the loan right around the time the legal types started looking into Rob’s shenanigans.”
“But . . . I mean, it was years between when they first investigated him and when your parents moved. That happened right before you . . .” Her voice trailed off and he knew what she was thinking—that the timing was all too convenient.
How was he supposed to tell her about his folks without her figuring out the rest?
“Right before I came back home from school. Exactly. That was when it finally blew up. From what I was able to piece together, just as you said, the investigation into the arrangement started way back when, back when Rob was first being charged. I don’t remember a lot about that, other than my mom crying and my dad walking around like someone had pulled the world’s worst and biggest gotcha on him.”
“His best friend,” she whispered, and pushed her wineglass in Spence’s direction. “You’d better refill this.”
That sounded like an excellent plan for both of them.
“Then Rob disappeared,” Spence said as he poured, “and things eased off. Life went back to normal, at least on our end.”
“Until they found him in Costa Rica.”
“Yeah. That was . . .” Spence gripped the stem of his glass, remembering that day. “It was one of the strangest days of my life. I remember coming home from school and my dad was there. Totally blew me away. Dad never came home in the middle of the day. He was sitting in his dad chair, one of those recliners, with a big glass of Scotch in his hand. I walked in and said something to him, I don’t remember what, but he looked at me like he couldn’t remember my name for a minute. Then he raised his glass and said, ‘That lying, cheating bastard is alive.’ But the way he’d said it . . . it was like he was glad. Like even after everything Rob did, my dad was still glad that his old friend was alive.”
Romancing the Rival Page 15