by Betty Bolte
Unfastening her seatbelt, Tara reached to open the door but paused to let her gaze skim over the abode. “We love living here. I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else.”
“If it’s where you grew up, that makes perfect sense.” The Victorian house boasted the requisite wraparound porch and gingerbread woodworking. Pale yellow walls provided a background for the chocolate trim around the many windows and the front door. Flowering bushes and stately trees added a touch of nature to soften the setting. Overall the kind of place he wouldn’t mind living in one day, after he’d found the right woman and a more interesting job. The longer he spent away from the lab, the lighter his heart felt. “It’s your home.”
Tara pushed her door open, and Grant followed suit. He popped open the trunk, pulled out the wagon and then grabbed a sack. Moments later they had the groceries in the wagon, and Tara pulled it along a brick sidewalk flanked by flower beds toward the rear of the house. Grant slammed the lid closed and hurried to catch up with her as she parked the wagon on the back porch and unlocked the door. She grabbed both bags and went inside, Grant trailing after her. The kitchen stood empty and silent as he stepped inside and eased the door closed. Cozy and compact. A kitchen ready for experienced hands to create something fabulous. A real working kitchen with a center island waiting to be used to fix hearty meals. He inhaled and caught the lingering odor of singed sugar and cinnamon, making his mouth water. Despite his tendency to choose speed over scratch made, he enjoyed cooking on occasion. He wanted to roll up his sleeves and get busy.
“I like your kitchen.” He sidestepped so she could walk past him, aiming for the pantry. “I bet it’s easy to work in.”
“Yes, but there’s little counter space. I wish it were bigger.” She yanked open the pantry door with one hand and placed the boxes of shells inside with the other. “Mom made sure of that when she updated the kitchen ten years ago.”
“Your mom liked to cook?” Grant could imagine his mother would approve of the layout of the open counter space, the placement of the range and microwave, the fridge and dishwasher. She’d agree on the lack of work space, but there seemed to be enough to manage.
“She was a wizard in the kitchen. When I was very little, she’d pull me in my wagon down to the grocery store, and I’d help her select the fresh produce and the meats for the meals she’d fix.” Her gaze turned inward, a small smile hinting at the fond memories she recalled. Another darker emotion flashed across her face and then disappeared. “Then I’d walk beside her with the treasure in the wagon all the way home.”
“Treasure?” He grinned at her, enjoying her tale even while pondering if he’d imagined the flicker in her expression.
She chuckled briefly and then sobered. “That’s what I thought it was at the time.” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize what an enchanted period of my life I was living.”
“How so?” He shifted to stand closer to her, within reach of her hand if he chose to take hold of her long fingers.
“Mom made me feel special and loved and protected all wrapped up in one package.” She rested her hands on the counter in front of her, her gaze flitting about the room. “I miss her so much and yet feel her near me at times. Like she’s keeping an eye on me still.”
“You are special, and loved, and I’d bet protected, even if you don’t see it yourself.” He wrapped a lock of her hair around one finger, marveling at the rich texture.
She blinked up at him, her lustrous hazel eyes quizzical. “Why do you say that?”
“You have two sisters and now your cousins who all care about you.” Releasing her hair, he studied her lovely features, her pert nose, tear-filled eyes, and bow-shaped mouth. “And you have Zak and Max who also are there for you. You’re a lucky woman, Tara.”
“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.” She dashed her hand over her eyes, remnants of her tears spattered on her high cheek bones. “Somehow it feels more like I’m facing the world on my own, wanting to but not quite meeting the mark of success.”
“Why so?” He frowned, trying but failing to follow her reasoning. From his point of view, she had everything. She was smart, talented, a successful businesswoman. Beautiful, too. “I don’t understand.”
She waved him off, her tears drying as her gaze shifted to stare at the range. “Never mind.”
“You’re also lucky to have such a fine place to cook.” He surveyed the kitchen and then leveled his regard on her. “This kitchen is compact, and that makes everything within easy reach.”
“You sound like Beth. She’s always going on about the utility and efficiency.” Rolling those same tantalizing eyes, she shook her head and spun around to finish stashing what she called her treasure. “Do you know how to cook, too?”
“A little.” He stepped out of her way with a chuckle. “I’m a bachelor. I don’t always cook, but I know how.”
“So you eat a lot of take-out.” With a few efficient moves, she had everything put away. She consulted her watch and then speared him with her gaze. “Is that right?”
“Spot on.” Grant chuckled and sidestepped to the end of the counter to give her more space. “But I prefer home-cooked when I can get it.”
“We have a little while until Roxie and Beth are home for dinner.” She regarded him steadily for a moment. “What do you want to do while we wait?”
Ideas abounded as to what he’d like to do with her, but the timing most definitely was not right. Nor would she agree with his suggestions in that vein. They hardly knew one another. “It’s a nice afternoon. Do you have a book I could read outside?”
She nodded and strode across the floor to a bookshelf in the corner. “We do own a bookstore, you know.”
He crossed the room to see what tomes stood on the four shelves. Perusing the titles, he was surprised by the eclectic array of topics and genres. High-brow fiction. Mysteries. Romances. Science fiction. Some nonfiction and even an essay collection.
“That’s quite a mix.” He spotted a new edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s work and reached for it. “Okay if I read this one?”
She drew in a quick breath and raised one brow, surprise in her eyes. “Sure. We bring home a selection of new releases to read so we can hand-sell to our customers.”
“Nice perk of your job.” Grant wondered at her reaction to his request. He glanced from her to the hardback, opening it to determine the contents. Sure enough, the editors had included his favorite poem, “The Raven.” He closed the book and caught her studying him. “I’d spend all my time reading if I worked in a bookstore.”
“It is quite tempting.” Tara moved away from the shelves to stand by the table, the tips of the fingers on her right hand resting lightly on its surface. Such refined digits, too. He nearly reached for her hand, but she lifted hers and slipped them into her front jeans pockets. “There’s a grouping of chairs outside. You go on out as I need to start dinner.”
“Come join me if you have a few minutes.” He contemplated the disbelief reflected in her countenance. “What? I enjoy talking with you.”
She bit her lip and then moistened her lower lip with her tongue. The movement caught his attention, made him wonder what it would be like to kiss her. An event he hoped would happen before long. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, almost as though she read his thoughts, sensed the desire he felt for her without him having to say a word.
She studied him for a beat. “I can’t promise I’ll have time.”
“That’s okay, since I pushed my way into your afternoon.” He took one last look at her tempting lips and then forced himself to walk to the door. Away from the woman sparking desires both familiar and foreign. He’d never thought so frequently about settling down, of finding a wife, one day having kids. Since the tumor, though, his goals in life had shifted to include more personal achievements versus professional ones. Still, neither of them was ready to commit to anything smacking of a relationship let alone physical intimacy. But he relished spending time with the seductress.
“I’ll leave you to your work.”
As he closed the door behind him, he chuckled to himself at Tara’s long sigh of relief. He paused at the edge of the porch, letting his gaze drift over the landscaped yard. A privacy fence marked the extent of the property, its slatted boards supporting several types of dormant climbing vines and roses. Stepping stones wound across the space, leading to a circular brick patio in the far corner. Four chairs surrounded a covered fire pit, inviting him to venture down the steps and along the flat slabs of stone. Choosing the chair facing the house, he rested the book on his leg while he took note of the apparent effort expended on creating a comfy and welcoming place.
Flower beds edged with brick complemented the patio. Pampas grass mingled with what would be flowering bushes come spring. He could identify roses and azaleas from the shape of their leaves but several other varieties dotted the small yet beautiful yard. Off to one side, a brick grill snuggled up to a garden shed with a workbench under an overhanging roof. Come springtime, they’d have an oasis to escape to after work.
He raised his gaze to peruse the back of the historic home. Signs of wear and age in the form of peeling paint and warped shutters had him itching for the proper tools to mend the damage. Three women living in such a large old house would have a difficult time keeping up with the attendant care and maintenance. Overall the home showed they worked to preserve it as best they could, but if they had a man around to help… He blinked and gripped the book as a sudden thought darted through his mind. He toyed with the idea only for a moment then dismissed it as absurd.
Shaking his head at the rash idea of moving to such a small town when his work and his home remained in the city light years away in both distance and culture, he opened the book and began to read.
Chapter 5
Only a little while longer and she’d be saved. Her sisters would return home and she wouldn’t be faced with confronting the one man she must resist. She had to avoid Grant and the strong desire, the compulsion to touch him, make contact with him in any way possible, that she experienced whenever he stood near. Yet she remained hyper aware of him sitting in her yard reading one of her beloved authors. How had he zeroed in on that particular book so fast? A sign? She hoped not. Staring at him sitting so casually in her favorite chair wouldn’t help either. Pacing away from the window, she pulled the band out of her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair, disentangling the tresses but not her thoughts.
Deciding action suited the situation better than contemplating the hunk in her yard, she set to work preparing to make dinner. Soon she had the fresh veggies washed and ready to dice and slice. She cut up a clove of garlic and a small yellow onion, sniffling and wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. Adding the ground beef to a skillet, she scraped the onion and garlic off the cutting board into the pan, ready to cook later. As she turned to pull bowls out to hold the various ingredients, the door opened and Beth sauntered inside, moving with care as she shut the door with a mumbled greeting. The squinting eyes beneath a furrowed brow gave Tara the answer as to the reason.
“Headache?” Tara went to bolster Beth with a supportive arm around her waist. “Are you okay?”
“Migraine.” Beth rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Second one this week.”
“Here, sit on this chair, and I’ll help you.” Tara guided her to the straight-backed chair beside the table. “Did you take anything for it?”
“No. I came home to you.” She sank onto the seat with a groan, her eyes half closed. “I hate being ill.”
“What triggered it this time?” Tara stood behind her sister and rested her hands on Beth’s shoulders, probing for the location of the headache. “Any idea?”
“People.” Beth leaned her head back, eyes closed, a hand rubbing her forehead. “Damn town.”
Tara peered at her for several long moments. “What do you mean? Did something happen at the store?”
“Nothing ever happens in this town.” Beth opened her eyes halfway, pain evident in the dullness in them. “One of these days I’m going to leave and never come back. There has to be more to life than Roseville.”
“Never?” The mere hint of such an occurrence shot alarm through Tara. To never see her sister again? “You don’t mean that, surely.”
How could she protect her sister from pain and illness if she moved away? Flashes of fear and despair appeared in her mind’s eye at the idea. She’d have to find a way to monitor her. Skype? Other social media? Not good enough. Proximity played an important role in sensing how she could best help them.
“No. I’d probably come to visit.” Beth lowered her eyelids again as she grimaced. “Do your thing, sis.”
“Relax and focus on a pleasant place.” Tara placed her hands on either side of Beth’s head, resting them above her ears as she closed her own eyes to concentrate. Pinpointed the pain center and began to draw it away and out of Beth’s skull.
Grant strode into the kitchen bringing the scents of the outdoors into the small space. He hesitated at the door, the new annotated edition of Poe’s writings tucked under one arm. “What are you doing?”
Tara ran her hands over and around Beth’s head for another moment or two. Then dropped her hands to her sides as she stared at the man. Talk about timing. His was impeccable for interrupting. She rubbed her palms together as she considered an appropriate response that wasn’t a lie but not the whole truth. “Massaging Beth’s headache away.” She glanced at her sister. “Why don’t you go on into your room, and I’ll be there shortly.”
Beth nodded and rose to walk slowly out of the room without a backward glance or a word. Tara wanted to follow, ensure the pain had ended, but first she had to put any suspicions Grant may have to rest. She turned to face him and relief washed over her at his open countenance.
“How is she feeling?” Grant claimed her attention, his gaze locked with hers. “She didn’t seem right when she passed me.”
“You noticed?” Another mark in his favor. Damn him.
“That’s why I came in. It was pretty obvious, even from a distance.” He claimed the chair, turning it around so he could rest his elbows on the back, and propped his head in his hands. “Even for a guy like me.”
“Thanks for asking about her. She gets migraines occasionally, but a little shut-eye and her…treatment, and she’ll be up and around again in no time. I’ll check on her when I finish cutting up these veggies.” She motioned with the knife at the duo of bright red beefsteak tomatoes sitting beside the cutting board.
“I could do that while you tend to her, if you’d like.” Grant stared at her, moving his hands to brace them on the chair, prepared to stand with her agreement.
The challenge she faced was in fixing anything in the kitchen without a disaster occurring. But she had to do it herself, not let somebody else step in and take over. Much as she’d rather have someone else do the cooking so she need not embarrass herself on a regular basis. But Roxie was right. She had to overcome whatever made it impossible for her to succeed in the kitchen.
She shook her head and reached for the first tomato. “Not necessary, but thanks. This won’t take but a few minutes.”
“Then I’m just in time to watch you make dinner.” He settled into a comfortable position and waited with an expectant expression plastered on his face. “Perfect timing.”
Oh, Mother, may I. Tara’s hand shook, the knife dropping to the cutting board. A good thing as she could easily cut herself otherwise. Retrieving the knife, she gripped it to force calm inside her churning stomach. All the man had to do was walk in and look at her to make her on edge and hyper aware of him. No way would she let him know the effect he had on her equilibrium and self-respect. She drew in a long breath as she straightened her spine, steeling herself to deny her wayward response to his presence. Her plan waited to be put into motion.
“Not much to see.” Unsure whether she could handle the slippery tomatoes in her present state, Tara grabbed the head of lettuce and
sliced it into shreds, tossing handfuls into a waiting bowl. Or attempting to. Bits of lettuce spewed across the counter. Snatching them up, she flung the shreds into the bowl and then attacked the head of lettuce again. “I don’t usually have an audience.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Grant grinned at her, his expression both friendly and smug. “I can leave if you’d prefer.”
And have him think he’d elicited a physical response from her? Even if he were correct? What a stroke to his ego that would be. “No, it’s fine. Tell me what you think of the book.”
She continued to slice and dice while Grant watched. Tried to ignore the way his gaze followed the movement of her hands as if mesmerized by her long fingers splayed over the avocado. She sliced it in half, removed the pit, and then began peeling the skin away to reveal the green flesh. She tried to not react to his intent regard which sparked heat in her center, a flicker growing into a flame of desire to have his full attention.
“The editors did a pretty good job of providing the context for the stories. Especially in explaining the allusions in ‘The Raven’.” He shrugged as his lips parted slightly when she began cutting the avocado into bite-sized pieces and placed them in a separate bowl. “You make that look so easy.”
She met his gaze and then wished she’d kept her eyes on the cutting board. The intensity of his eyes watching her sent thrills of yearning spiraling into her core. Added fuel to the flames of desire already flickering to life. She couldn’t permit herself to fall for him. She wouldn’t. Time for redirection. “Beth is a whiz in the kitchen. She puts me to shame.”