The First Kiss

by Grace Burrowes

  “Is that why you took to riding so enthusiastically?”

  “I like horses; I like women better.” James had loved the horses, loved the smell of the barn, loved the sense that in the saddle, none of the problems at home could catch him.

  “You need a hobby though,” Trent said, rising. “You can’t work and chase women all the time, James.”

  “Can too.” Maybe he’d get a dog, though.

  “Except you’re not.” Trent scanned James’s office, which was neither as cushy as Mac’s nor as cozy as Trent’s. “You’re putting in brutal hours because you’re in such demand, but you’ve hardly kept up with your usual social whirl. I might worry, except I’ve concluded you’re making a strategic retreat.”

  Dogs were a lot of trouble too, and they stank and rolled in dead groundhogs.

  “A strategic retreat?”

  “So the ladies will be that much more appreciative when you’re riding circuit again,” Trent said.

  “Quite honestly, if the ladies were much more appreciative, I’d be…”

  “You’d be what?”

  James would be dead. Worn out from sexual excesses and the accompanying disillusionment.

  “I think there’s something wrong with most men,” James said, leaning back in his chair and feeling a twinge at the base of his spine. “All the ladies want is a little consideration, some affection, someone to take genuine pleasure in their company. Am I the only guy who understands that?”

  “I have dated a few women,” Trent said, holding up the paper clips in a rainbow-colored loop and letting it coil into the bowl. “I am more inclined to think you underestimate yourself, James, than to conclude most men are too dumb to treat their womenfolk decently. You have Adelia’s phone number?”

  “Hold on.” James popped open a directory on his computer. “Write this down.” He gave Trent the number. “If she can’t take you on, try Amory Bennington at this number.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trent left, while James sat frowning at his screen for long moments.

  Trent hadn’t asked him to teach the ladies how to ride, though James had put himself through two years of college as a riding instructor. Maybe Trent did not want to impose, or Hannah was self-conscious at the thought of James teaching her to ride.

  James scanned down the list of names on his screen, dozens of them, recalling the women he could, trying to remember those whose faces eluded him.

  He was nearly thirty years old, and what he had to show for himself was a long list of lonely women and a pile of business documents that, quite frankly, bored him to tears.

  Maybe Trent was right. Pets were a lot of bother, but maybe it was time for a hobby. A real hobby.

  * * *

  “Is James coming to dinner again?”

  Vera should have seen that question coming, because Twy had been loudly hinting every night for a week.

  “He might some day, but I haven’t invited him back. How was school?”

  “We had a quiz in math, and I nailed it,” Twyla said, grinning, and executing one of her signature kitchen pirouettes. “I showed those fractions who was boss.”

  “Mr. Knightley was helpful, wasn’t he?” Mr. Knightley had been a godsend.

  “He said I could call him James,” Twyla replied, reaching blindly above her head for the cookie tin. “He’s tall enough to reach the cookies. I think you should invite him back.”

  “I think you should wash your hands before you have your snack.”

  “Are we having mashed potatoes again?” Twyla asked. “They were de-licious.”

  “They were good, but no, we’re having lasagna with salad and garlic toast.”

  “Yum.” Twyla went to the sink and let the hot water run until steam rose. “I bet James knows how to make lasagna, though. You should ask him.”

  At dinner, Vera endured more of the same. James this, Mr. Knightley that, until Vera wanted to scream.

  She hadn’t called Trent Knightley, but she had made the requisite report to the sheriff’s office. They’d taken down her statement, the same as they always did, and told her they’d keep it on file.

  The phone rang as Vera put away the dinner dishes, and on principle, she picked it up without glancing at the number.

  “Hello, Waltham’s.”

  “Hello, Vera. James Knightley here. I hope I didn’t interrupt dinner or fractions or vocabulary?”

  Good God, he had a sexy voice, like a concert grand Bösendorfer she’d performed on in Berlin. Silky, resonant, and so very, very male.

  “Dinner is over, the fractions are cowering in complete subjugation, and Twy has been singing the praises of your mashed potatoes for days.” While Vera had just about convinced herself she’d never hear from James Knightley again.

  “A guy likes to know he’s made a good first impression, or his mom’s mashed-potato recipe has. I picked up a battery for your Ford.”

  Who knew an antique Ford could be a guy-magnet? “The Falcon is Twy’s, technically. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah, I did. You might need backup wheels if Donal decides to slash more than one tire next time.”

  “Cheer me up, why don’t you, counselor?”

  “It’s been nearly a week, Vera, and I suspect you haven’t called Trent, so when can I bring over this battery?”

  James glossed over his accusation like so many grace notes, but Vera still heard the reproach.

  Also a genuine offer to be helpful. “I’m free this Saturday, James. Twy likes to sleep in Saturdays, though, so let’s make it about eleven.”

  “Saturday at eleven, then.”

  He hung up before Vera could ask him what the battery had cost, or remind him to bring his mashed-potato recipe.

  Twy would ask, after all.

  “Who was that?” Twyla came down the kitchen steps on her backside, bumping down one step at a time.

  “Doesn’t that hurt your back?”

  “No. I heard the phone ring.”

  “It was your friend, James. He’s bringing over a battery for the Faithful Falcon on Saturday.”

  “Cool.” She was on her feet and scampering back up the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look for some more recipes for him!”

  That was why Vera should have shooed James off, or told him to return the battery. Twyla missed the influence of an adult male in her life and would get ideas about James, and about James and Vera. Vera should have told him to leave the battery with his brother Trent, whom she’d been meaning to call.

  But calling Trent meant admitting Donal was not going away, not going to behave according to the court order, and Vera labored under the stupid, stubborn hope that if she just ignored Donal long enough, he’d sprout some of the common sense the Scots were supposed to be famed for and leave her in peace.

  Maybe she should get a dog—a big, noisy dog with lots of teeth.

  “Mom?” Twyla called down the stairs. “For the turtle cookies, do you put the vanilla in before or after the melted chocolate?”

  “After.”

  “What time is James coming over?”

  “Around eleven, but if you want to carry on a conversation, stop bellowing and come down here.”

  Silence. Vera finished wiping off the counters, telling herself the whole time that accepting a man’s offer to put a battery in her car did not obligate her to anything more. She’d be pleasant to Trent Knightley’s brother on Saturday, wangle his mashed-potato recipe from him, and ply him with a few fresh, warm, sinfully good brownies.

  Then send him on his merry, practical, sexy way.

  * * *

  Harper Nash was a scrumptious woman, on the tall side with big green eyes and masses of red hair that she tried to subdue into a French braid. Best of all, she was smart enough to
listen to her lawyer, though James was having a hard time remaining focused on their conversation.

  “You want a clause in the subcontract that gives you control over the lower-tier subcontractors your vendor gets in bed with,” James said, though he might have chosen his words more wisely.

  “Why do I want my nose in their business?” Harper asked, tapping lacquered red nails on James’s conference table. “I’m hiring them to do a job, I’ll inspect their work, and if it’s not to spec, I’ll withhold payment.”

  “Damned right you will,” James said, though two years ago, when Harper had first inherited her dad’s business, she’d written checks simply because invoices came in. “You don’t want a subcontractor who’s just skimming a percentage. You want to hire a driller, say, because he has the equipment and know-how to take all the samples you need, on time and within budget. If you don’t keep control of the subcontract-consent language, then your subs can give a piece of your business to your direct competitors.”

  She wrinkled her pretty nose. “Hardly in my best interests.”

  “Hardly,” James agreed, tidying up the papers spread before him. “Then too, you don’t want just anybody on your work site, watching how you go about a project, talking your best people into jumping ship. You want to be the gatekeeper.”

  While James wanted this appointment to be over.

  “I don’t want my subcontractors colluding to jack the bid prices up,” Harper said. “Tell me again why I don’t sell this business?”

  James fished an orange paper clip out of a small bowl only to find it was attached to about thirty others.

  “Because then,” he said, twisting the orange clip free, “I wouldn’t get to see you from time to time, and my dreary life toiling among the fine print is made bearable if I have at least a few clients whose company I enjoy.”

  Not quite a lie. James liked Harper. He liked homemade turtle cookies more.

  Harper crossed long, shapely legs. “Do they teach you that kind of flattery in law school?”

  “It’s not flattery,” James said, unhooking more paper clips. “It’s the God’s honest truth. My small-business clients do a much better job of considering my advice than the big boys do, and I can feel some pride when the little guys prosper as a result.”

  “You give advice I can understand,” Harper said, coming to her feet. “What are you doing for lunch, James? My stomach is reminding me that breakfast was hours and a spin class ago.”

  “I have a few errands to run,” he said, rising as well. “I also want to finish marking up this draft subcontract for your contract administrator before close of business. The construction season will begin sooner than we think.”

  “We live in that hope. Thanks again.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, lingering near for a mere, telltale instant.

  In that instant, James’s body heard the invitation in places low and friendly. Harper was quite, quite single, up to her ears in keeping the family business together, and likely as much in need of comfort and affection as any lady in her position. She trusted James, she liked him, and she found him attractive.

  So why not?

  She left his office, treating James to the lovely sight of her retreating backside. Harper knew how to dress, and she knew how to walk away from a man so he might harbor a few regrets.

  Except James…didn’t. What he felt, watching her walk away, leaving him in peace for the afternoon, was an odd kind of relief. When he sat down at his computer, he opened his address book to the particular directory that held the most names.

  He had a printout of the list somewhere in his hard-copy files, and it likely lurked in his email too, because emailing files to himself was a cheesy way to make a backup.

  Why keep such a list? The women invariably called him, though the only number he gave out was the office number. They slipped him their numbers, and he dutifully cataloged each one, but he was the one they called when they were between boyfriends, at loose ends, trying to get back on the horse after a bad breakup, or just plain horny. If Damson County had an award for booty call of the year, James would have won the past three years at least, hands down.

  Because when the ladies called, he answered.

  He stared at the screen for a long time, then, in a few deft keystrokes, deleted the entire file.

  * * *

  “He’s here! He’s here!” Twyla went tearing to the front door, sliding at the corners on the hardwood floors. “James is here!” She threw open the front door and would probably have run right down the steps, except she was in stocking feet.

  “Hullo, James! Is that my battery?”

  “Hello, only-Twyla-I’ve-ever-met, and yes, this battery is for your Ford.”

  Twyla hugged him around his middle, squeezing tight, while he stood holding the battery and smiling over the child’s head at Vera.

  “If I’d known what bringing a battery did for my reception, I’d take one with me everywhere. Good morning, Vera. Sorry I’m a few minutes late, but I stopped at the hardware store.”

  Even his version of sheepish qualified as low-grade sexy.

  “You’re male,” Vera said. “If you were loose without supervision in a hardware store, we’re lucky to see you before sundown. Come on back to the kitchen. Twyla made you a fresh batch of brownies.”

  As greetings went, that wasn’t exactly gracious, but the sight of her daughter being so openly affectionate with James unsettled Vera. Twyla had never hugged Donal like that. Had never hugged Donal at all. She barely tolerated the offhand affection Darren, Donal’s son, showed her.

  “The best part about baking,” James was saying, “is the whole house smells good. They ought to make candles scented like brownies.”

  “They do,” Twyla said. “Mom won’t let me have candles in my room, or I’d have one. Do you want ice cream with your brownie?”

  “I want to get this battery into that car, and then we can talk about brownies. How’s that?”

  Twyla looked a little nonplussed at this example of male single-mindedness when in Fix-It mode.

  “I’ll need some help with the battery,” James added, “and if we cut the brownies too soon, we’ll get a mess. You think you can be my assistant?”

  “Sure!” Twyla trailed after him through the kitchen and into the garage like a puppy with a new canine buddy at the dog park.

  “You have the key to this old sweetheart, Vera?” James patted the hood of the Falcon, his hand smoothing over the metal as if it were warm and alive.

  “Here,” she said, taking the keys off a pegboard near the door and tossing them at him. “I have some laundry to fold, but holler if you need anything.”

  He caught the keys one-handed, then reached under the grill and popped the hood. “Twy will keep me out of trouble, won’t you, Twy? The first thing I’m going to ask you to do is get a stool from the kitchen, so you can see what we’re doing.”

  What did it say about Vera that she resented James, simply for showing polite consideration to Twy, who’d had far too little to do with considerate men?

  It said Vera was insecure and selfish, and not as healed from her divorce as she wished she were.

  She folded the towels—did anything smell as good on a winter morning as clean laundry?—and had most of them put away when James and Twyla came back into the kitchen, James toting the borrowed stool.

  “You look pleased with yourselves,” Vera said. “Mission accomplished?”

  “James showed me how to check the tire pressure and where the oil pan is and what a valve-stem cover is.”

  His automotive genius-ship set the stool down near the sink, and Twyla climbed up on it to wash her hands, as she had as a much younger child.

  How had he known to do that?

  “Somebody takes care of that car,” James said as he lathered his hands. “The timing is close to perfec
t, but you should take it out for a spin every so often.”

  “We do,” Twyla said. “We go for road trips and take a picnic basket. It’s lots of fun.”

  “Be a little breezy picnicking in this weather.” James appropriated a towel, dried his hands, and then draped the towel over Twyla’s shoulder, which had the girl positively beaming. “I heard a rumor some brownies in this kitchen might be looking for a good home.”

  “Mom, can we get the brownies now?”

  James was so easy with the child, so relaxed and charming. Vera wanted to order him from the house, though he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  She also wanted him to show her what a valve-stem thingy was.

  “Brownies for lunch, then,” Vera said, going to the refrigerator. “We’d best have ice cream if we’re to make a meal of it. Chocolate or vanilla?”

  “Some of both,” James said. “I like variety in my pleasures.”

  Vera wasn’t looking at him, so she couldn’t tell if he’d meant that as lasciviously as she’d heard it. “Twy, what about you?”

  “Some of both,” she said, beaming at James.

  The child was well and truly smitten, and by a guy whose greatest accomplishment so far was that he was a motorhead who could explain fractions, for the love of Saint Elizabeth.

  “Whereas I will have neither,” Vera said, aiming a look at James, “because I like my pleasures simple and uncomplicated.”

  He reached for the chocolate ice cream, dipped a spoon into the middle, and took a bite, sliding the spoon out of his mouth s-l-o-w-l-y.

  “Vive la différence,” he said in a perfect French accent, lowering his lashes. “I guess I’ll need another spoon, lest I get my wrist slapped for double-dipping. Where are the spoons, Twy?”

  She showed him which drawer, and he kept the used spoon for his own bowl, but served himself and Twyla with a clean spoon while Vera cut the warm brownies.

  “I like brownies for lunch,” Twy declared, hopping up onto a stool. James took the stool from near the sink, and planted it right next to where Vera stood at the island.

  “I wonder if brownies for breakfast would be as good,” he mused, settling onto the stool. “Might have to do a direct comparison, have brownies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” He took a bite, and again, Vera had the sense he’d made some almost-flirtatious remark.