by Maggie Wells
And poof, in the blink of an eye she was gone.
His senses swirling, Jake turned to look at the girl beside him, wondering if she might feel as completely at sea as he did. Instead, she rolled her eyes and gestured him toward the living room area.
“We don’t have people come over very often,” she explained, her expression every bit as frank as her words.
She motioned him toward a plush upholstered white couch before flopping into a disconcertingly masculine leather recliner parked in front of the television. Jake eyed the sofa, thankful Darla hadn’t opened the bottle of red wine yet. He gave ten seconds of thought to asking Grace to swap, but she didn’t look like she going to give up her seat without some significant inducement. Supercharged silence stretched thin and tight between them. Anxiety clawed at his stomach as he tried to think of something to say. Thankfully, Grace saved him.
“I guess I should thank you. I no longer have to worry about starting a kitchen fire the next time I warm a Pop Tart.”
Alarmed by her mention of kitchen fires, he leaned in. “Huh?”
“Never mind.” She darted a glance at the kitchen then folded her hands over her knee, striking a very business-like pose. “So, Dr. Dalton—”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.
“Dr. Jake?”
Inclining his head, he accepted this compromise and prompted her to continue. “Miss Grace.”
“Well, how about that Pluto? Not bad for a dwarf planet, huh?”
He smiled, both tickled and relieved by her choice of topic. “We’ll be getting mileage out of the data for a long time.”
She gave a good-natured groan. “No pun intended.”
He quirked a brow at her. “Oh, I intended the pun.”
“You should be sorry.”
Effortlessly, they fell into sync. Grinning at his new friend, he lifted a shoulder. “But I’m not.”
Grace rewarded him with a dramatic eye roll. “No one likes a science nerd.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He had to hand it to her. She had her mother’s glare of pitying disdain mastered. “Two advanced degrees and that’s the best you can do?”
“My brother and I never really got past the ‘says you’ stage.”
“Mom says your brother is the diver guy from the oceanography show.”
Jake smirked. Her description of the oceanic exploration show Brian once hosted for the Earth Channel spoke volumes about her level of interest. He liked her a little more and more. Ever since his little brother ended up on the cover of a supermarket tabloid standing beside Jennifer Aniston, he’d had a hard time convincing anyone Brian was a water-logged dweeb who couldn’t master the more complex challenges of astronomy. “Yeah, Brian.”
“He and my mom were in the same class. So was Laney.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah. Brian, his fiancée Brooke, your mom and Laney were all a couple years behind me and Harley in school.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Mom and Laney don’t like each other much.”
“Not true,” Darla announced as she entered the room carrying a pair of mismatched wine glasses. “We just don’t have very much in common.”
Jake accepted the glass she offered him with more than a little trepidation. Darla Kennet could never be accused of being stingy on the pour. He watched the deep purple liquid sway close to the rim of her glass as she settled herself on the opposite end of the couch. Clearly unworried about possible stains, she took a generous gulp of wine.
He stared, unable to draw or expel air until she pronounced his offering acceptable or spit it back into her glass. He exhaled as she chose the former, nodding her approval as she went in for another taste. Heartened, Jake attempted a sip of his own. When he came away without dumping the contents of the glass down the front of his shirt, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
Figuring there was no sense in tempting fate, he placed the glass on the coffee table. “We were talking about the data the new Horizons vehicle collected in its visit to Pluto.”
“Don’t bother,” Grace said with a dismissive wave. “Mom’s only interested in space exploration if Han Solo is driving.”
“Grace.”
There was no sharp edge to Darla’s voice, but the reprimand rang through clear as day. He knew her tone well. He thought only his mother had perfected it, but here, five minutes into his visit with the Kennet women, he discovered the Mom Tone was universal. Standard-issue mom equipment? And having been on the receiving end of far too many of those gently bludgeoning admonishments, he knew the best thing he could do was pretend he hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
“As I was saying, it will actually take years to collate and study all the data collected. A very exciting time.”
Darla met his gaze but mustered only a half-hearted smile. “I’m sure it is. The photographs were amazing to see.”
“Yeah, I love looking at them.” Their eyes held for a beat, then he broke the contact, all too aware of their audience. “So, uh, Grace, do you have a telescope?”
“A small one.” She shrugged. “It’s okay for looking at the moon and picking out stars, but that’s about all.”
“Where do you set up?”
She shrugged. “Most of the time out in the parking lot, but Mom and I like to take it when we go to the beach.” The two shared a smile and any ragged feelings between them seemed to disappear. “It’s great there. Isn’t it, Mom?”
Darla nodded and took a much smaller sip of her wine, her expression suddenly pensive. “Yeah, great.”
“My brother—” He turned to Grace and made a face worthy of middle name usage if his own mother had caught him. “—the guppy, has a place on Dauphin Island. I have a scope out there.”
“Where do you live?” Grace asked.
“Gracie, don’t be nosy.” Darla softened her words with a smile, then set her wine glass on the end table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better check on things.”
He nodded and shifted his attention back to the inquisitive teen across from him. “I bought a loft-condo thing down on the waterfront. One of the warehouses Cade Construction rehabbed.” Eager to turn the tables before she could have another go at him, he asked, “Where do you guys like to go to the beach?”
“We only really go to Orange Beach. Harley and CiCi have a condo there they let us use when I’m on school break.”
“CiCi?”
“Harley’s mom,” she explained. “She’s not really my grandma, but kind of like a grandma. I’ve always called her CiCi.”
“She’s a nice lady.”
“You know her, too?”
“She used to work at our school.”
“Oh, right. You guys were so lucky.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “CiCi’s a much better cook than Mom.”
“I heard you,” Darla called from the kitchen. “I’ve kept you alive for over thirteen years, kid. Wanna cap it there?”
She came out of the kitchen, oven mitts covering both hands and her cheeks the pink of the tea roses in his mama’s flower beds. Again, Jake was struck by the pearly translucence of her skin. The flush colored her ears, traveled down her throat, and spread across her chest. He wanted to follow its path. Discover whether her nipples were the same rosy pink. Note how they looked when they furled up tight. See for himself exactly how they’d glisten when wet from his mouth.
“Jake?”
The single syllable sledge-hammered through his little trip down fantasy lane, but not didn’t keep him from zeroing in on unexplored territory. By the time he jerked his gaze from her breasts to her face, Darla’d fixed him with a pointed stare that told him she knew exactly what he was doing. He opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again. Any excuse he might make would be a lie and only make things more awkward. So he said the only thing he could say to cover his multitude of sins. “I’m sorry. Excuse me?”
“I was asking if you are a salad guy.
”
He frowned, wondering if this was one of those traps. If he said no, he’d look unevolved, but a simple yes could turn him into a pansy. He chose his words as carefully as a man faced with torture by leaf lettuce might. “I eat salad.”
Truth. Except when someone put a plate of broadleaf weeds and dandelion stems in front of him.
“It’s salad out of a bag,” Grace said in a stage whisper.
Darla shot her kid an exasperated look. “You know, soon you and I are going to have to have a little talk about feminist solidarity.”
Grace blinked those big doe eyes. “I’ve totally got your back, Mom.”
“Too bad I can’t reach the knife you planted there.”
Jake laughed, amused by the back and forth between them. Sinking back into the squishy couch cushions, he crossed his arms over his chest and settled in for the show.
Darla squared her shoulders and turned to face him, gloved hands on her hips. “Dr. Dalton, would you care for some bagged salad with no extra vegetables, but your choice of either bottled ranch or bottled Italian dressing?”
“Yes, thank you. Sounds great,” he replied, matching her stiff tone, but unable to suppress his smile.
“Tell me, are you more the bottled ranch or the bottled Italian fan?” Grace probed.
There seemed to be few wrong answers in this household. As he caught onto the rhythm of their banter, his nervousness ebbed. “Well, I will eat either one because I pretty much eat everything I get my hands on, but seeing as how this restaurant is so fancy as to offer a guy a choice, I have to go with the ranch.”
Grace gave a grave but approving nod. “We believe most everything is better with enough ranch dressing.”
Jake smiled. “I think there’s research to back your theory up.”
The girl blinked, then cocked her head. “Really?”
“I conducted the study myself.”
A timer rang out and Darla disappeared into the kitchen as Grace laughed at his lame attempt at humor. Out of habit, he rolled his neck forward, and to his surprise, the joints didn’t pop for once. Though his muscles ached from the work he’d done installing the flooring, he was somehow more relaxed than he’d been all day.
Sharing a conspiratorial smile with Grace felt natural. He liked these sassy, funny women with their quick wit and utter lack of artifice. They made him feel at home.
The urge to leap to Darla’s defense seemed to be becoming an imperative. He sat up straight and ran his hands down the front of his khakis. “Maybe I should see if your mom needs a hand.”
Grace sputtered a protest, but he paid her no heed. He needed to move. Work. Do something other than sink into that cloud of a couch and float away to never-never-gonna-happen land.
Rounding the corner, he found Darla standing on tiptoe, straining to pour a large pot of cooked noodles into a colander in the stainless steel sink. She was barefoot. He hadn’t noticed when she answered the door. He was too busy babbling at her about wine and wondering where the lines in the sand would be drawn concerning his interaction with Grace. Steam billowed into the air and she gave a soft hiss as she turned her face away from the scalding vapor.
He stood there like a dolt. A white knight two seconds too late to be of any use, and too damn fixed on the fair maiden’s freakin’ feet to make his move.
But her soles looked as pink and soft as the rest of her. When she eased down, he saw her toenails were polished a shade of metallic blue that instantly made him think of mermaids. Giving his head a shake to dislodge the fanciful thought, he hovered in the doorway of the galley-style kitchen.
“Sorry, I was coming to help.”
Darla glanced over her shoulder as she set the pot on one of the unlit burners to get it out of her way. “What? Oh, I’ve got this. I haul commercial-sized tubs of slaw and stuff around all the time.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Strong. Remind me not to tangle with you.”
She barked a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s me. A regular Ronda Rousey.”
Bracing a shoulder against the doorframe, he watched as she drained the water from the pasta. She wore a bra. He could see the line of the strap beneath her shirt. Fortunately for him, the undergarment did little to harness the tantalizing jiggle of her breasts when she gave the colander a shake. Of course, she looked over at that moment, busting him out on staring at her bust for the second time in five minutes.
Heat prickled his neck and lit the tips of his ears, but he did his best to shrug off his embarrassment. “I wouldn’t go that far, but you are pretty formidable in your own way.”
She paused as she lifted the strainer from the sink. Threads of thin spaghetti took their best shot at escaping through the narrow slats cut into the bowl, but Darla didn’t seem to care. She focused all her attention on him. “You think I’m formidable?”
Jake nodded and pushed away from the door. The advertised bottles of salad dressing flanked a plastic bowl filled with pre-cut lettuce, shredded carrots, and a few token bits of red cabbage. A bag of shredded cheese lay propped against the side of the bowl—an addition he heartily approved—and there was a loaf of bread wrapped in a blue and white striped kitchen towel. He drank in the homey chaos of it all as she moved to the stove, rose up onto her toes again, and poured the pasta straight into a pot of rich red sauce, creating a splatter pattern a homicide detective would love.
Holding the empty colander, she turned back to him. Still barefoot. Even more flushed. And beautiful. Soft and strong. She covered one foot with the other and rubbed slowly. In the blink of an eye, Darla Kennet shifted from pretty-but-prickly to utterly irresistible.
Without giving a thought to the possible consequences of his actions, he stepped into the tiny kitchen, wrapped his arm around her and drew her flush against him—sauce splatters, kitchen implements, and all. The tip of her tongue peeked out from between her lips as she tipped her head back to look up at him.
“Are you gonna kiss me?” The question came out in a breathy rush. Not a tease. No hint of taunt.
“Yes.”
She blinked once, then grabbed the front of his shirt with the lobster claw oven mitt she was still wearing. “Then you’d better make it quick. Grace has a jones for garlic bread. Unless you handed her a book before you came in here—”
“Is dinner ready yet?” Grace called from the other room.
Jake released her so fast she stumbled back against the sink.
“Sorry.” The apology tripped right out of him.
“Are you?”
He stared straight into her eyes. “Only because I wasn’t fast enough.”
She curled the quilted claw into a fist. “If you’re here for me, tell me now,” she ordered in a low voice. “Leave Grace out of it.”
The implication had all the effect of a punch to the throat. “You invited me here.” The factual reminder did nothing to soften the stubborn set of her jaw. “For Grace or for you?”
She snorted, tossed the plastic strainer into the sink, and yanked the oven mitts from her hands. Pursing her lips, she selected a spoon from a colorfully-painted ceramic jar on the counter, but instead of using it to stir the noodles into the sauce, she pointed the spoon at him as if she could hold off his advances. “I asked you here to help Gracie. You’re the one who showed up with a bottle of wine like this was some kind of a date.”
He took another step back. “Since we were raised in the same circles, I’m going to assume you know that’s an unfair accusation. I was taught never to show up at someone’s door empty handed.”
“Well, I’m sure Gracie would have appreciated the grapeyness if she had tasted it.”
The old knot of tension between his shoulder blades was back. “I have an old telescope in the back of my car. I was thinking she could use it if she wanted.”
“A telescope?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “A higher grade than most people buy in stores. She’d be able to see more,
even with the ambient light from the city.”
“You brought my daughter a telescope?”
On the inside, Jake braced for impact, but somehow managed to keep his cool. He tossed her question off with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder. “On loan. I didn’t know how you’d feel about me loaning one to her, though, so I wanted to talk to you before I brought it in.”
She stared at him, those coffee-no-cream eyes locked on him and pure incredulity written all over her face. “You brought one of your fancy telescopes over for my thirteen-year-old kid to use on her science project?”
“Well, I have a newer one and this one was sitting in my closet—”
Darla tossed the spoon into the waiting pot and turned to face him full-on. “I want to kiss you.”
Narrowing his eyes, he tried to calm his racing heart and outright ignore the half-hard-on poised for lift-off. “Is that a yes on the telescope?”
“Are we eating, or have you guys already gone all Donner Party in there?” Grace asked.
He stared at Darla, completely flummoxed. “Donner party? How does she—”
“Switching to satellite television was the biggest mistake of my life.”
Jake glanced over his shoulder and the question popped out before he had a chance to thoroughly vet it. “The biggest mistake?”
Again, her jaw firmed and an intractable gleam lit her eyes as she stared him down. “Well, there was a haircut about three years ago ranking right up there, and the tragic platform flip-flops stage, but in terms of non-fashion choices, I’d say yeah.”
He was saved by Grace swinging into the room. She glanced from him to her mother, then to the stove, then gave them each another going-over before zooming in on the lump of pasta in the saucepot. “You know that spoon thing can be used to stir the pasta, right?”
“I’d heard something along those lines,” Darla muttered as she moved back to the task at hand. The blush was back, but she didn’t look at either him or Grace as she started to stir. “Take the salad and stuff in, will you, sweets?”