It’d been a long day, though, and she needed to freshen up. She spritzed on some perfume so she’d feel better about herself, not because she wanted to impress someone. Then she brushed her teeth. And put some gel in her hair, spiking it a little. It had nothing to do with Devon Black, though. No. This was all just a matter of self-esteem.
She went to the kitchen and took stock of what was in the fridge. He probably hadn’t eaten yet. It would be rude to eat in front of him, so what could she make? There wasn’t much to choose from, just the usual pickles, mustard and mayo, half a bag of salad mix, that chicken breast from the deli and some milk. And beer. Couldn’t forget that. Well, okay, she had some cheddar and some butter. And bread. She could manage grilled cheese sandwiches.
Fast and easy. She’d stuff one down him, throw a beer at him, make half a dozen cookies and then send him on his way.
She had the bread out and the cheese sliced when he returned. Yep, he’d sped.
“You were speeding.”
“I was not,” he insisted, walking through the door. He was carrying a large grocery bag. “Got some beer,” he said, and sauntered out to the kitchen.
Even though she’d intended to offer him one, she bristled at the fact that he’d assumed this was going to be some kind of party. “I hope you’re not planning on staying all night,” she said. “I’ve got things to do.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask her what.
“I just saved you a good hour. You’ve got that much time, right?”
She leaned against the kitchen counter and frowned at him. “Why do you keep thinking I want to hang out with you?”
“Why’d you put on perfume?”
Now her cheeks were sizzling. She turned her back on him and got busy laying cheese slices on Oatnut bread. “I always put on perfume when I get home.”
“Liar.” He moved to stand behind her, close enough to make the sizzle spread farther down. Way farther down. “Are you cooking for me? That’s so cute.”
“No, I’m not cooking for you. I’m cooking for me. You just happen to be here and I don’t want to be rude.”
“There’s a first.”
She ignored him, pulling out a frying pan and setting it on the stove burner.
“Kind of a small burner for that pan, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s the only one that works.”
“Ah.”
She turned the burner on and slapped some butter in the pan.
“You should butter the bread and then put it in the pan.”
She frowned at him. “You want to do this?”
He held up a hand. “No, no. You’re proving you can cook. I don’t wanna mess with that.”
He’d rather mess with her head. She turned up the heat and added the sandwiches.
“Did I ever tell you I’m a good cook?” he asked.
“Did I ever ask?”
He didn’t reply to that. “Yep, I had this girlfriend,” he went on, “who had a cooking show on one of the local channels when I was living down in sunny California. She was ten years older. She’s the one who taught me.”
“All part of your misspent youth?”
He was quiet for a moment. “A lot of it was misspent. A lot of things didn’t go according to plan.”
“Like what?” she asked, lifting the sandwich with a spatula to see if the bread was browned.
“Like a pro-ball career.”
She flipped the sandwich. “Sucks to be you.”
He grunted. “It did actually. One minute I thought I was on my way to the majors and the next I was on my way to the hospital.”
That made her turn around. “Seriously?”
“Baseball is something I’m always serious about.”
“What happened?”
“What didn’t? First my shoulder benched me, then I trashed my knee and that was the end.”
Way to go, Tilda. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
He shrugged. “Shit happens. And hey, I’ve made my share of shit since then. I know that.”
“But now you’re a new man?”
“I’m workin’ on it.”
This she highly doubted. Devon Black would always be a rebel, a bad boy.
“Your sandwiches are burning.”
She swore and pulled the pan off the burner.
“Yeah, you sure can cook,” he teased.
“I like my grilled cheese sandwiches well done,” she said as she slid them onto plates. She took a bite of hers. “Mmm.”
He laughed. “You really are a liar.”
“Shut up and eat your gourmet sandwich.” She pulled a beer out of the fridge. “Here. I’m only giving you one. Make it last.”
“I’m good at making things last,” he said with a devilish grin.
She returned to the kitchen table and plunked down on a chair. “There are lots of women in Icicle Falls. Why do you keep bugging me?”
He joined her. “Bugging you—is that what I’m doing?” He took a bite of his sandwich and regarded her.
“Yeah. You’ve been trying to flirt with me ever since you came to town. You got some kind of fantasy about doing it with a cop?”
He took a swig of beer. “Nope. Only about doing it with you. What can I say? I like you. I know it’s sick, but there you have it.”
“I’m not your type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Oh, yeah, I do. Someone like that cute little blonde I saw you hitting on in Safeway last week.” They’d been checking out the oranges and each other.
“Pfft, I was just being friendly.”
“Yeah, I’ve watched you being friendly.”
“You were watching, huh?”
She rolled her eyes.
“I didn’t even ask for her phone number.”
“I guess you’ll have to hope she runs out of oranges.”
“Funny. I like a woman with a smart mouth.”
“Well, I don’t like a man with a smart mouth.”
“Lying again.”
She shook her head. “You are so not my type.”
“Okay, what is your type? Oh, wait, let me guess, someone who walks around wearing a gun and who’ll use handcuffs on you.”
“Cute,” she said, and left the table. “I’m making cookies now, and after you’ve had your cookies and milk, you’re going home.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said, and took another swig of beer. “I’d offer my help but you’re such a whiz in the kitchen I know you don’t need any.”
“I don’t.” She set the oven to three hundred and fifty, then got busy melting butter.
“So, getting back to your type of man,” he prompted.
Tilda measured brown sugar into a bowl. “Someone who’s got some muscle.”
“Check,” Devon said, and raised the bottle to his mouth. “What else?”
This conversation was getting a little uncomfortable. She downed some beer, too. “Someone who’s a responsible adult.” She turned and pointed her mixing spoon at him. “And don’t say ‘Check.’”
“I’ve got a steady job and I pay my bills. And my speeding tickets. I do my own laundry and my own cooking and I clean my own place. I’d say that all counts as responsible.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s say you’re responsible.” She added granulated sugar and her melted butter to the bowl.
“Good idea. Let’s say that. What else?”
She shrugged. What she’d wanted was someone fit, with a six-pack, but also someone kindhearted, someone who did something noble for a living, like fight crime. Or fires. Uh-uh, she told herself and put her straying thoughts under house arrest.
“Come on, spill,” he said.
She mixed in the other ingredients. �
��We’re ready for the chocolate chips.”
That brought him over to the counter. He watched as she stirred them in, then dredged out a finger full of dough and stuck it in his mouth. “Not bad.”
“They don’t have my secret ingredient in them yet,” she said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Nuts.”
“That’s original.”
“I’m out of nuts.”
“We’ll have to make do,” he said, and snitched some more dough.
She whacked his hand with the spoon. “Stop that. There won’t be any left.” It suddenly dawned on her that they were getting way too chummy here. How had that happened? Okay, she needed to get these cookies done and get him gone. What kind of cologne was he wearing?
Never mind that! She started dropping dough onto the cookie sheet in fast motion.
“So, back to your perfect man,” he said as she slid the cookies into the oven.
Her cell phone rang. Saved by the bell. “Hey, Jamal,” she answered.
“You busy?” Jamal asked.
“Busy? Nah.”
“Yeah, you are,” Devon told her. “You’re baking cookies.”
“I just picked up a pizza at Italian Alps. Wanna play some Call of Duty?”
“Sure. Come on over.”
“Who’s Jamal?” Devon demanded.
Tilda frowned at him. “Is that your business?”
“Who are you talking to?” Jamal asked.
“Just someone who’s leaving soon.”
“It’s gotta be a cop,” Devon deduced.
“Okay, then,” Jamal said. “I’ll pick up some beer.”
“I’ve got beer.”
Devon frowned. “Not mine you don’t.”
Tilda ignored him. “See ya soon.”
“You and this cop seeing each other?” he asked as she ended the call.
Partners were off-limits and Jamal was too much like a brother, anyway, but she wouldn’t mind a Jamal clone. Sadly, the other guys at the station were either married or had girlfriends. There wasn’t much left to choose from at the fire department, either, especially now that Garrett Armstrong was taken. Forget it, she told herself. You’ll just feel... She didn’t even want to think about how it would make her feel remembering that she’d lost out on Garrett. “Hello, there. You having an out-of-body experience?” Devon’s question yanked her back to the moment at hand.
“Yeah, and I thought maybe you’d be gone by the time I came back.” Just her luck that the only guys who appreciated her were ones who were completely wrong for her.
“So what are you and Robocop gonna do?”
“Like I said before, none of your business.”
Devon’s easy smile was now long gone. “Is he your type?”
“Maybe.”
He studied her, then gave a knowing nod. “I see how it is. You’re into superheroes. Anyone else won’t make the team.”
“What?”
“You’re looking for a cross between Rambo and Batman. If I ran into burning buildings or beat up crooks for a living, you’d be all over me.”
“We don’t beat up crooks.”
Devon shook his head. “Jeez, Tilda. I knew you were a hard-ass, but I was okay with that. You weren’t like the airheads I used to date who just wanted to spend my money and have a good time. You were interesting, different. And yeah, out of reach. But I kept thinking, What the heck, give it a try. Now I’m beginning to wonder if you’re worth the effort.”
“Oh, thanks a lot. Way to impress a girl.”
“Hey, I’m done trying to impress you. I’m gonna find someone who’s not stuck-up.”
“I’m not stuck-up!” she protested.
“Oh, yeah, you are. You think you’re better than everyone else because of what you do for a living. Building houses doesn’t count for squat. You’re prejudiced against plain, old, normal people. I was half kidding when I said it the other day, but I was right, wasn’t I?”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Yeah, it is.” He marched for the door. “Have fun with your superhero.”
“Hey, I never asked you to chase after me!”
“Don’t worry. I’m done with that.” He yanked open the door just as the doorbell rang and there stood Jamal, all six feet four inches of him, looking like an escaped Seahawks fullback. Devon wasn’t a small man, but Jamal dwarfed him. Jamal the superhero. “Have fun,” Devon snapped at him and left.
Jamal strolled into the living room wearing a puzzled frown. “What was that loser doing here?”
Even though she had the same attitude—okay, so was she stuck-up?—Tilda found herself jumping to Devon’s defense. “He’s not a loser. He’s got a job.”
“A flunky at a construction company? Tell me you’re not interested in him, Til. You can do a hell of a lot better.”
Yeah, that was why the men were lining up at her door. “He was here hanging Christmas lights.”
“I coulda done that for you.”
“I could have done it myself.” Did everyone in Icicle Falls suddenly think she was helpless?
He sniffed. “Is something burning?”
“Crap! My cookies.” She pulled on an oven mitt, opened the oven door and grabbed the cookie sheet. The cookies were definitely well done—just like the grilled cheese. “It’s this oven,” she said, looking for a scapegoat.
“Good thing I brought pizza.” Jamal set the box on the kitchen counter. “By the way, I like your T. rex. Might have to get one of those to put up outside my place.”
“Too late. I bought the last one.”
“Figures.” He opened the box and took a slice for himself. “If you have any more stuff to put up, let me know. I’ll come over and help.”
“Stop already. I don’t need any help. Anyway, I’m not putting up any more. This is enough.”
“Yeah, I bet that’s what everyone said when they first moved here.” He tried a couple of cupboards, looking for dishes.
“Plates are in the one to the right of the sink,” she said.
He got one out and dropped his pizza on it, then got one for her, too. “Come on, eat your pizza and let’s play.”
So that was the end of the conversation about Devon Black. But he didn’t leave. He stayed at the back of Tilda’s mind, constantly poking at her with a guilt stick.
So what if she preferred men who had noble occupations? So what, so what, so what? There was nothing wrong with that, and it didn’t make her prejudiced. It wasn’t her fault that Devon Black wasn’t her kind of man.
The whole baseball thing, though—she hadn’t known about that. It must’ve been hard to lose such a big dream. Still, it was no excuse for barroom brawls and speeding and walking around like you were God’s gift to women. And the only reason he wanted her was because she didn’t want him.
No, she didn’t. No, sirree. She could do better than Devon Black.
She said as much to him when he showed up in her dreams later that night. There she was, a member of the Seattle Mariners, the only woman on the team. (Very impressive, but then she always was in her dreams.) She was playing second base and here came Devon Black, playing for the other team. (Who in the American League wore pink uniforms?) He slid into the base, knocking her off balance and making her fall on top of him. He grinned up at her and, lo and behold, he had little red devil horns poking up through his batting helmet.
“You’re a loser,” she informed him.
“Yeah? Well, then, how come I already got to second base?” he murmured, slipping a hand under her baseball jersey. Before she could say anything else, he kissed her.
Oh, man, it was a great kiss. Long and luxurious, and who cared about those horns? She kissed him right back, and there they lay, goin
g at it until the umpire, who just happened to be Jamal Lincoln, showed up and said, “You’re both benched. Get a room.”
The next thing she knew, they had a room and she was standing in the middle of it, asking herself how she got there. It was pink (ick!) and had a circular bed and mirrors on the ceiling. And in the middle of the bed stood Devon Black, wearing a Halloween devil costume and holding a baseball. He wound up and threw it at Tilda. It caught fire and sailed directly at her. She wanted to duck, but she couldn’t. She just stood there, unable to move, as the flaming baseball rocketed toward her head. Eeeeek!
She woke up with a strangled screech and the strong wish that Devon Black had never moved to Icicle Falls. And right along with that was the niggling question—did he kiss as well in real life as he did in her dream?
Chapter Ten
The holidays have a way of bringing out the best in people.
—Muriel Sterling, Making the Holidays Bright: How to Have a Perfect Christmas
Ivy had been on her feet and going nonstop since nine that morning. Now it was six-thirty and she was just getting home. Thank God Mutti had fed the kids, but nobody had fed Ivy since Pete fetched lattes from Bavarian Brews at ten. She was hungry and tired and cranky, and the kids were bouncing around the house like twin Slinkies on speed, Gizmo chasing them and barking at the top of his little doggy lungs.
I’m dreaming of a calm Christmas. And that would happen only in her dreams. Older women like Muriel Sterling and Janice Lind loved to remind her how fast children grew up, and they cautioned her to enjoy these precious moments while she had them. Either she was the most ungrateful mother in all of Washington State or these women were forgetting that some moments weren’t all that precious.
She captured Robbie and plunked him in the playpen (as if that was going to do any good), and put on a DVD of Christmas songs complete with cartoon characters so the kids could sing along while she put together a quick sandwich in the kitchen. She’d just spread tuna fish on some whole-wheat bread when the doorbell rang. Oh, good grief, now what?
“It’s Mrs. Walters,” Hannah yelled.
By this time of day, the temperature was dropping and the ground was getting slippery. Mrs. Walters should’ve been in her house rather than out risking a broken hip. She usually called if she needed anything, so the fact that she was at the door meant she was delivering something, probably candy for the kids. Mrs. Walters loved doling out sugar buzzes.
Christmas on Candy Cane Lane Page 14