I jogged down the steps, meeting her halfway between her car and the house. Just because I was supposed to be avoiding the woman didn’t mean I was an unchivalrous dick. “Here, let me,” I said, relieving her of several of the bulkier bags and following her up the stairs, through the front door, and to the kitchen at the back of the house.
One of the bags toppled over when I set it on the counter, sending an apple careening onto the floor and across the room. “Shit,” I muttered, dropping down into a crouch to crawl under the table where the apple had landed.
“Gotcha!” I wriggled back out with the bruised apple held aloft, smacking my head against the bottom edge in the process. “Fuck.” I grasped the back of my skull with both hands, immediately dropping the fruit back down onto the floor.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered as it rolled across the room, stopping a few inches from where Rosalie stood in a pair of tan leather and L.L. Bean boots.
“You okay?” she asked, staring down at me with laughter dancing in her beautiful green eyes.
I winced. “Please tell me that didn’t look nearly as bad from up there as it felt from down here.”
She smiled and reached a hand out to help me up off the ground. “Probably worse.” She stepped backward while simultaneously tugging my body upward.
I could have gotten up on my own, but in a moment of weakness, I’d wanted to feel her skin pressed against mine—even if it was only our palms. When I was back on my feet again, I promptly pulled my hand away. It would have been creepy to keep holding on to it long after my need for assistance had passed.
She picked up the apple and rubbed it against the fuzzy sherpa sweater that ended just below her hip. “I was planning on slicing this into a salad, but I think it might be better suited to a roast now. You in the mood for pork loin and Brussels sprouts?”
“I could eat,” I said, my stomach rumbling at the mention of one of my favorite meals. As a single guy who lived alone, it wasn’t often I got to enjoy it, though; cooking wasn’t one of the skills I’d managed to develop when I’d left the old homestead.
“Excellent. Beer?”
“I won’t say no to that, either.”
She smiled and pulled a thirty-two ounce growler bearing the Speakeasy logo from one of the canvas tote bags. Pushing up onto her toes, she grabbed two glasses from an open shelf and set them down on the counter in front of her. She twisted off the top on the bottle and poured a stream of dark chocolate-colored liquid into each glass, then passed one of them my way.
“I didn’t know they’d released this already.” I lifted the glass to my lips and let the beer snake down my throat. When I swallowed, I let out a contented ah. “That’s damn good.”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I asked them to pour me something seasonal. Cheers.” She lifted her glass to me and then tossed back a large gulp, her throat working as she swallowed. She coughed and wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand.
All of a sudden, I had this weird flash of a memory. I’d finally convinced Margaux to go camping with me, but before we headed up to New Hampshire, I’d needed to stop at my parents’ house to drop something off for my dad. In my vision, Margaux was standing next to my mom wearing an outfit similar to the one Rosalie had on now, and she couldn’t stop fidgeting with her pullover and complaining about how uncomfortable her boots were. I’d wanted to tell her that she looked fine, but the truth was, she’d looked like a fish out of water.
In contrast, Rosalie looked straight out of central casting for “beautiful woman in New England during autumn.” In fact, every time our paths crossed, she appeared less and less like the pampered princess I’d first thought she was and more like a born-and-bred Vermonter. Then again, that’s exactly what she was. Maybe the woman who’d dressed in designer sequin gowns had been an imposter, and the person standing in front of me now was the real Rosalie?
Whichever this Rosalie was, I liked her. A lot.
“I hope you don’t mind that it’s just you and me tonight. Mom’s off at one of her book clubs or something.”
“I shall endeavor to survive. This vanilla spiced porter certainly helps.” I smiled, and she rolled her eyes.
“What can I do?” I asked, setting my glass to the side and pushing my sleeves up to help prep our meal. If I noticed that her eyes widened a fraction when I exposed my forearms, I let it slide. After all, I’d basically just checked her out, too, hadn’t I?
For the next forty minutes or so, we worked companionably side-by-side, chatting about what was going on in our lives since we’d last seen each other. Rosalie described her shock when she’d run into a former classmate at the grocery store and had learned the woman—one of the “bad” kids in school—was married to a pastor with whom she had five kids.
In turn, I detailed the ongoing saga out at the Lindholm project, relaying my most recent conversation with them. “It physically pains me,” I said, “to tear out all that beautiful slate and replace it with this new patterned tile they ordered after seeing it on Pinterest. I’m not even kidding when I tell you it looks like an optical illusion once all the tile’s been laid. Someone’s going to get vertigo showering in there.”
She chuckled, but it wasn’t in a “that’s so funny” way. Instead, it came across as more of an “I get it, but it’s not worth arguing over” type of sound.
“Blake?” I asked, not wanting to pry. At least not too much.
On the one hand, no guy wants to hear about the husband of the woman he’s got a stupid little crush on, but on the other hand, I got the sense that Rosalie didn’t have very many people here she could talk to. There was Gloria, of course, and her many friends, but if my experience with those ladies was any indication, they probably spent more time trying to fix her up with their grandsons than anything else. When I’d first moved in next door, there’d been at least ten single granddaughters they’d unearthed between them they would have been more than happy to introduce me to if I’d have let them.
She nodded and blew out a long, weary sigh. “Back in the day, we rented a house near the resort where one of his friends was getting married. The real estate agent he’d gone through made it sound like it was this beautifully-restored mid-century modern home, but when we walked inside, I was convinced we were in the wrong place. It had been completely gutted and stripped of all of its detail and originality. It was so soulless. Naturally, Blake thought it was the height of sophistication and luxury. The moment we got home, he hired an architect to come in and redesign our condo to look just like it. Mind you, the condo had been built in the 1930s and still had all its original plaster and arches. It was a nightmare. The glare from the sun hitting the white lacquer cabinets in the morning was enough to blind you.”
“That’s—” I searched for a word to describe the travesty of such a thing but found myself unable to come up with something that was sufficiently dreadful. “Fuck,” I breathed, at a loss.
“Fuck, indeed,” she agreed.
“You know, I was already predisposed to dislike the man based solely on your mom’s commentary of his many faults, but as a historic preservationist, now I’d like to hit him over the head with a hammer.”
She laughed for real then.“I’d hardly try and stop you. I loved those damn arches and parquet floors. I cried when they ripped ‘em out.”
The timer on her phone dinged, and she reached into the oven to pull out the pork. She dove back in a second later to retrieve the vegetables, and I forced myself not to ogle her ass as she bent over.
“I sold my dream house because Margaux hated it,” I confessed. I hated that I’d inadvertently brought up bad memories and didn’t want her to feel like she was the only one who’d ever lost a home she loved because her partner had been a selfish asshole.
“Ugh. Our exes really do suck,” she said, her mouth tipped down in a frown as she passed me my plate. I moved toward the kitchen table, but she craned her neck in the direction of the dining room instead. �
��Let’s eat in there.”
I glanced down at my scuffed work boots and loose gray sweatpants. “If I’d have known this was a formal occasion, I would have worn my black sweats instead,” I joked as we pushed through the swinging door that separated the two rooms.
We settled down on opposite sides of the table, and I was surprised to find I was still smiling despite the unhappy topic we’d been discussing. I told myself it didn’t mean anything, but I couldn’t ignore the strange butterflies in my stomach as we dug into our food. I’d been less nervous on actual, legitimate dates than I was right now.
Not that I’d done much dating lately.
After Margaux and I broke up, I’d had a difficult time putting myself out there again. Sure, I’d had random hookups here and there—usually friends of whatever woman Mikey was banging at the time—but nothing that I wanted to pursue beyond a couple of nights together. At first, I worried that I was using these women, but over time, I realized that they were using me too, and I stopped feeling guilty about a few hours of consensual physical release. Eventually, however, I also realized the sex wasn’t all that great, and so I stopped hooking up altogether. To say that I was currently experiencing the longest dry spell of my adult life would not be hyperbole.
Which maybe explained why I couldn’t get Rosalie out of my head. From the moment I’d seen her tear-streaked face, I’d been strangely drawn to her. And getting to know her had only intensified those feelings.
No, I reminded myself for what felt like the eleventy billionth time. Rosalie Wentworth was one hundred percent off-limits—even if I was starting to wish otherwise.
9
Preston
Letting out an appreciative groan, I set my fork down on top of my empty plate and rubbed my hand across my stomach. “That was delicious.” So delicious, in fact, that I was sorely tempted to lick my plate clean like some heathen who lacked basic table manners. Alas, I needed to behave myself if I ever wanted to be invited back.
Rosalie lifted her glass to her lips and smiled at me over the rim. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“If you’re not careful, I might ask you to make my dinner every night.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how gross they sounded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to treat you like my personal servant. Besides, you have more important things to do with your time than cook for me.”
“Honestly? Not really. I’m going a bit stir-crazy sitting around all day, obsessively checking my email to see if there are any updates from my lawyers. Drowning my nerves in a glorious meal instead would be an improvement. And let’s be honest, my mom would love it if you were here every night.”
“She’s been very nice to me,” I replied diplomatically. I got the sense Rosalie wasn’t necessarily thrilled with just how nice her mom had been.
As if our conversation had summoned her, the bright xenon headlights of Gloria’s Mini Cooper panned across the dining room wall.
“Speak of the devil,” I said, as the door at the front of the house opened and Rosalie’s mom came swanning into the room.
Her gaze swung back and forth between her daughter and me. “Well, aren’t you two all nice and cozy. Hello, Preston.”
“Hello, Gloria. How was your evening?”
“So much better now.” She slid her purse down off her shoulder and set it on the edge of the table furthest from where Rosalie and I sat, pulling out a chair to join us.
When my gaze connected with Rosalie’s, she was rolling her eyes. “How was your book club?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s not until Tuesday. Tonight was ceramics. So much fun; I just adore kneading all that soft, warm, pliant clay. You two should give it a try.” The suggestive purr in her voice had me nearly choking on my beer.
“Mom!” Rosalie squeaked. “We talked about this.”
“Talked about what, dear?” Her face wore an expression of pure innocence, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say she understood Rosalie’s meaning exactly.
“This!” Rosalie exclaimed, flapping her hand back and forth between them. “The innuendo and double entendres. It’s embarrassing.”
“I legitimately have no idea what you’re talking about. All I meant was that it was a very tactile, satisfying experience.”
“Sure you did,” Rosalie snorted. She crossed her arms over her chest, peering dubiously at Gloria through half-slitted eyes. Clearly, she didn’t believe a word out of her mom’s mouth.
Gloria turned toward me. “You work with your hands, Preston. Maybe you can explain how rewarding it is to get them dirty doing something you really enjoy. Better yet, maybe you could show her.”
“Oh my god,” Rosalie muttered under her breath.
“Oh!” Gloria continued excitedly. “You should rent Ghost before the class. You know, to get you in the spirit of things.” She chuckled at the pun.
“Mother!” Rosalie hissed as my gaze darted between the two women, a thought forming at the back of my mind.
I could have been way off base, but I couldn’t shake the notion that Gloria was trying to play matchmaker. Between the pancake incident and this conversation, I wondered if she’d been trying to push us together for a couple of weeks. Which, okay, fine. But to outright suggest something so blatantly sexual? That was bold, even for her.
Not that I was opposed to acting out a sexy scene or two, mind you.
Unbidden, an image of Rosalie’s naked body stretched out beneath me as I massaged warm oil into her glowing skin sent a potent spike of lust straight to my groin. My cock swelled, and I shifted in my seat to conceal the bulge that tented my sweatpants.
Meanwhile, Rosalie and Gloria continued to bicker in hushed tones and coded language that I clearly wasn’t meant to understand. Briefly, I considered leaving the room to give them some privacy, but I felt glued to my chair, incapable of walking out.
Instead, I let my gaze linger on Rosalie’s flushed, beautiful face, her chest lifting and falling with labored breaths. Did outrage or intrigue put that color on her cheeks? Was it frustration or anticipation that made her breasts rise and fall so rapidly? And what did those surreptitious glances she kept tossing my way mean? Was she sitting there imagining us re-enacting a certain famous scene between Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore the same way that I had?
I honestly didn’t know.
Once upon a time, I would have said I was decent at reading women, but those days were long gone. And while I was admittedly rusty in this regard, I was pretty sure you didn’t come right out and say, “Excuse me, would you like me to head on over to the art store to pick up a potter’s wheel so we can ditch our clothes and rub some wet clay all over each other?”
And besides, even if you could say that, what would be the point? While Rosalie hadn’t mentioned any specific long-term plans, she was born and raised in Colebury, and based on the transformation I’d witnessed in her these past couple of weeks, it was precisely where she belonged.
Meanwhile, I had a job that could take me literally anywhere. Sure, I had projects in Colebury now, but there was a chance I’d need to move on to keep building my business. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of us to start something up that I couldn’t finish. And especially after her experience with that asshole back in California, Rosalie needed someone who could commit to her one hundred percent. Unfortunately, I didn’t know if I was that guy. I liked the idea of being that guy for someone someday, but after my own experiences with heartbreak and failed relationships, I didn’t know when I’d be ready.
And with that thought pinging around in my head, I finally pushed back my chair. Wordlessly, I reached across the table and picked up her empty plate and utensils, stacking them on top of my own. When she looked up at me in silent question, I notched my head toward the direction of the kitchen. I might be putting the mental brakes on whatever this was (or could be), but the woman had cooked me a wonderful dinner; the least I could do was not be an asshole and clean up after us.
As I was standing a plate
up in the drying rack, Rosalie stepped inside the kitchen with a bashful look on her face. She shoved her hands deep into the front pockets of her jeans and rolled up onto her toes. “So …”
I smiled, hoping to set her mind at ease, as I reached back down into the warm, soapy water to retrieve the next item to be scrubbed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, moving to my side and grabbing the dish towel off its peg to wipe down the plate I’d just washed. “That was incredibly rude of us.”
“It’s okay. Not exactly how I pictured the evening ending, but you can’t say your mom doesn’t keep a person on their toes.”
“No, you certainly cannot say that,” she mused, putting the plate into the cupboard. “I honestly don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. She’s always been outspoken and more than a little bit brash, but she was out of line back there.”
“There are worse things in the world than a parent who loves you and wants to see you happy.”
“I know. It’s just that she hasn’t actually asked what will make me happy. And even if she did, it’s not like I’d know how to answer.” Rosalie blew out a breath. “I just wish she’d stop assuming that she knows what’s best for me. I’m a grown woman; I don’t need my mom propositioning my hot neighbor on my behalf.”
I nudged her playfully with my hip. “All I heard you say is that you think I’m hot.”
She snorted. “Please. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what you look like with all ... that.” She gestured up and down the length of my body. “I put on a pair of sweats, and I look like I just rolled out of bed. On you, they’re … indecent.” She chewed on her lip as her cheeks heated to a warm dusty pink.
Homecoming (Speakeasy) Page 6
