Liberating Mr. Gable
Page 4
Again, Etta pretended not to notice. She simply pulled a few extra hand towels out of the hall closet and placed them on the counter next to him with a compassionate smile.
“I know it’s weird,” Anson commented without looking up at her. He would not look at himself in the mirror, either, so deep was his shame.
Etta shook her head as she moved back out into the bedroom, turning down the bed as gracefully as she could with one functioning hand. “Magician conventions. Those are weird. People are constantly pulling pennies out of your ear and then giving them to you, like it’s a gold coin or something.” She drew the lace curtains shut and peeked over her shoulder at him. “You’re going to have to work a lot harder if you want to be the weirdest guest I’ve had here.”
“I may have a penny in my backpack somewhere.” Anson managed half a smirk. Gratitude at her accepting nature touched his eyes.
Etta met his gaze that was growing more friendly, and less cagey. Her shoulders relaxed at the easy banter. Her nerves calmed when it clicked in her head that this man was not a threat. He was just a person who needed a room for the night. Though her usual customers were happy couples or families on vacation, she supposed the sexiest man alive would do. “Have a good night, Anson. If you need anything, just come find me. My room’s right next to the kitchen.”
“Thanks.” He moved into the cozy bedroom with his backpack and paused, turning to face her before retiring. The mauve walls were decked with intermittent roses drawn on the paint, but he still managed to look masculine, standing on the pink carpet in the love-themed room. He looked deep into her innocent eyes and spoke with all the sincerity he possessed. “I mean that. Thanks for this, Etta.”
Etta nodded. “Anytime, Hanson.”
Tea at Eight
Etta padded down the steps to the kitchen and began unpacking the groceries, trying to put the presence of a second person in her house out of her mind. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, giving the moon’s reflection its fair chance to dance on the snow banks. She turned on the kettle as she emptied the last bag, wondering just how long it would take to make her usual two dozen quiches with the slight handicap of the cast.
She looked down at her hand unhappily. There it was, a constant reminder of the horrible day she would just as soon go her whole life not thinking about. Some days she wished she was a fighter. Cooper taught her numerous self-defense moves over the years, but in the moment, she had been overpowered, despite her best efforts to fight the awful man off. From the very first time she was in the Bed and Breakfast alone with him, she felt something wasn’t right, but she wrote it off as jitters that were to be expected during her first time hosting a renter without the watchful eye of her grandfather.
Anson was quirky, what with the repetitive hand washing, sunglasses at night and fear of three-person “crowds”, but she did not get the same bad vibe she had with the other man – the man who took more than she ever offered anyone.
Etta bit back tears before they could surface. She wallowed long enough. She was done crying about it. She was a business woman, and business women did not cry. Instead, she opted for music to soothe her. She clicked to an old French classical piece her grandfather used to play for her when she had a rough day. She sighed and closed her eyes, willing his memory to safeguard her from letting her fears and emotions run rampant.
Etta grabbed at a mug, but it was just out of reach. Her grandfather had been tall, but now that the house was hers, she realized some reorganizing would need to take place. Normally she just hoisted herself up to kneel on the counter so she could access the cupboard’s contents more easily. There would be no hopping up with the cast on, though. Etta frowned up at the mug that taunted her. “Stupid tall people.”
A voice from behind her made her jump. “So now I’m stupid?”
“Jiminy Cricket!” Etta exclaimed, whirling around at the intrusion. She had not been expecting her guest to resurface so soon. “You scared me!”
Anson laughed loudly, revealing a set of perfect white teeth and a breathtaking grin. “Did you really just say Jiminy Cricket?”
Etta’s cheeks heated. “You can blame Vera’s swear jar for that.”
His smile and his tone teased her. “I would offer to help you, but I wouldn’t want your husband getting the wrong idea.”
She turned off the screaming kettle. “I’ve got it, but thanks.” Attempting to maintain some semblance of competence, Etta scooted a chair over to the counter and stepped up on it to reach the mug. “You want some tea?”
“Only if you get me down a really hard to reach mug.”
“Hush, you,” Etta pretended to scold him. She turned to hop down, wishing she did not have to look so awkward in front of the handsome stranger.
He had indulged in a shower, discarding the sheen of sweat and the bone-deep chill. His damp hair glistened as he watched her with eyes that were beginning to clear of their shiftiness.
“You can pick what kind of tea you like.” She motioned to the tin she had gotten out. There were various store-bought and homemade kinds. “The handmade ones are batched by one of the homeowners.”
“Are they any good?”
Etta smiled guiltily and lowered her voice. “No. They’re terrible. Taste like mulch.”
The spark in his eye danced for her. “You devious little minx. Pawning off the bad stuff on the newbie, eh? Nice try.”
Etta laughed at being caught, and blushed at his banter. “Don’t know how else to get rid of them, to be honest. I’m this close to adding them to the compost, but then I’d have to live with that smell outside.”
“Why not just toss them out?” He sifted through the tin until he found a store-bought brand he had heard of.
“I tried once!” Etta insisted, the ease of conversing with him was beginning to outweigh her apprehension at being alone with the stranger. “Geraldine came by to visit, and saw that I was out. She sent over, like, fifteen more bags!”
“You’re a nice person,” Anson observed.
“I think you mean pushover. Big difference.” She put the chair back at the table and flipped her wavy brown hair from her eyes. “Too keyed up to sleep?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had a vacation since I was a kid. I’m not sure I’m doing it right.”
“Reservations help,” Etta reminded him. “But mostly people come up here to get away. It’s quiet up here. We get a lot of writers and honeymooners. Families that want to go skiing and whatnot. There’s a ski lodge not too far away. Mostly couples on their anniversaries.”
“Not too many single guys, then?”
“Some, but not many. Shame that your first vacation is here, and we can’t give you the proper experience.”
“I don’t mind it. Honestly, this is the best place I’ve ever stayed.”
“Now who’s being too nice?” Etta plopped the tea bags into the mugs and poured in the hot water. “The dining room will be done someday, and you can come back then. Everything’s a lot prettier in the summer. Lake nearby, farms to tour, stuff like that.”
“Can’t wait.” He took a seat opposite Etta at the table, sniffing his tea contentedly. “I actually came down to get your wi-fi password.”
Etta grimaced. “I’m sorry. I assumed Vera showed you the brochure and gave you the rundown. There is no wi-fi. No cell phone signal in the house, either. There’s a landline if you need to make calls, of course, but we’re too high up for the other stuff. We don’t even have live TV. Just a few DVDs, if you’re bored.” She frowned worriedly. “Sorry. Most people who book a room do it for that reason. Get away from technology and whatnot for a while.”
The surprise on Anson’s face quickly gave way to relief. “That explains it.” His shoulders loosened, and he relaxed in the chair at the counter, letting loose a genuine grin. “That’s… perfect, actually. Just what I need in a vacation.” He laughed at something that was funny only to him. “Wow. Um, that’s great. So, no internet? How do you survive?”
Anson snorted, covering his mouth with his hand apologetically. “Did you just call it ‘the facebook’? How old are you? I think I may have seen you at Vera’s high school reunion.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” she answered, sniffing at his good humor. “Anyway, you can get online at the check-in office. Just have to wait until the storm passes.”
“Nope. I won’t be needing… What is it you kids are calling it these days? The Interweb? The Intertron Machine?” He could not stifle his amusement at the ignorance he was beginning to find adorable.
“Oh, shut up.” Etta stiffened, wishing she could take back the rudeness her grandfather never would have exuded.
Anson did not notice her faux-pas. “Am I keeping you from all the stuff you have to do that stops you from sitting in front of a computer and getting on ‘the facebook’?”
“Nah. I’m on sort of a hiatus from running the business, if you can’t tell. Remodeling takes time. I’m laying low.”
He sipped his tea, marveling at the ease of the witty back-and-forth he had not indulged in for quite some time. “Well, thanks for letting me lay low with you.”
Etta hid her flicker of a smile behind her mug. “Anytime, Hanson.”
Smirking at her jab, he wrapped his fingers around the heated mug, relishing the warmth of the beverage and the woman. “I think I like it here, Hetta.”
Cracking Eggs and Cracking Up
“It’s six eggs per quiche,” Etta instructed, giggling at his failed attempts at cracking an egg. “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before. How do you survive if you can’t cook?”
Anson kept his focus on the white orb in his fingers. They had been at the task for nearly an hour. Both of them lost track of the late hour; they were having so much fun. “Hey! No heckling. It’s never too late to learn a new skill.” He tapped the egg on the side of the bowl, dismayed when nothing happened. “I mostly eat out. Order in. Our family had a cook growing up.”
“Fancy,” Etta commented appreciatively. “You’re overthinking it.” She picked up an egg from the carton and gave it a whack on the flat surface of the counter, dumping the contents in with the batter.
“How did you do that without getting any bits of the shell in?” He examined the yolks swimming about skeptically.
Etta laughed. “I think the better question is how is this your fourteenth egg, and you haven’t done it right once yet?”
Anson gave the woman his best stink-eye. “Yet is the important word in that statement. And I picked out all the pieces. It’s still a useable quiche.”
Etta picked up two eggs with her good hand and cracked them into the bowl, emptying them without a trace of the shell sneaking in.
“How did you do that?” he marveled, examining her dainty fingers.
“You should see me rock four eggs at a time.” She indicated her cast.
Eyes on his egg, Anson spoke to her without looking up. “So, how’d you break your arm?”
Etta stiffened, and then coasted over the hiccup. “Bad judgment.”
He raised an eyebrow, but chose not to call her out on her evasiveness. She maintained a respectable distance from him and did not mention his odd behavior of tensing up whenever anyone got too near, nor did she treat him like the freak he felt like when she saw him wash his hands six times in twenty minutes upon entering the house. He thought it only fair to return the favor and not press her on it. “I sprained my wrist once years ago. Fell off a horse.”
“A chef growing up, plus a horse? I’m starting to think I should charge you double when you come back.”
“I’d pay it,” he admitted, stealing a glance at her surprised expression. “I don’t get much of this back home.”
Etta swallowed down the last of her tea. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that the skill of making a quality quiche travels with you wherever you go.”
“I meant the conversation.” He motioned to the window. “The quiet.”
Etta sized up the attractive man that oozed manners and charisma in her kitchen. He seemed an entirely different person than the one she met outside Vera’s office, with no trace of the agoraphobia to speak of. “I can’t imagine you have a hard time making friends.”
His laugh came out hard and humorless. “Fake friends? No problem. It’s making a real friend that’s the challenge.”
“See, that’s weird. You don’t seem fake to me right now.” She rinsed off a whisk in the large basin sink. “Of course, I don’t really know you. Your name could be Oscar Mayer Wiener, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”
Anson cracked the egg too hard, shattering the shell into the bowl again. “I’ll keep that in mind when I’m conjuring up false names to give to people.”
“First thing that came into my head,” she admitted, chagrinned that she’d said “wiener” in the company of a man. “What do you want from me? It’s ten o’clock at night!”
“Oh, you’re right. Sorry. Am I keeping you up with my egg-cracking ineptitude?”
“No. Not at all. You just might have to overlook some of my lamer jokes, is all.”
“That, I can do.”
“We’ve known each other, what? Four hours? Five? I’m sure I’ve got a few more dumb riddles and whatnot in me before I turn in.” The phone hanging on the wall rang. “Ugh. It’s Cooper, I just know it.”
“You could always ignore the call, you know,” Anson suggested, fishing out a stray bit of the shell with a butter knife.
“Then he comes over.” She picked up the phone. “Hey, Coop.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Cooper asked, feigning surprise.
“You need anything?”
“I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Same level of alright I was two hours ago when you last called.” She faked a yawn. “I’m going to bed. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Okay. Did he try anything ungentlemanly?” Cooper inquired.
“Well, he did try to dress up in one of my frilly skirts. I’d call that ungentlemanly. More ladylike, if you ask me.” She smirked at Anson’s raised eyebrow. When Cooper did not cotton on to her wit, she sighed. “I told you. I’m fine, Coop. Goodnight.” She hung up before he could ask on her condition another time.
“And who was that?” Anson teased. It was the fourth time Cooper phoned since they had gotten home.
“Oddly enough, that was Oscar Mayer Wiener himself. Mr. Wiener, if you will.”
Anson chuckled. “I guess that’s better than Jiminy Cricket making a house call.” He picked up another egg and tried his hand at cracking it. “So, how’s your husband? Is he on his way over with his pickaxe and rifle?”
“You think you’re joking,” she commented wryly, exasperated at the embarrassing amount of worry everyone looked on her with. “Coop’s harmless. Annoying, but harmless. I think he’s bored. Needs something to work on. He’s always fixing things, even when nothing’s broken.”
“Not a bad trait,” Anson allowed graciously.
“No. But he doesn’t know when to stop. And apparently, he can’t tell the difference between a car that might need fixing, and a person who doesn’t.” The last sentence came out too bitter for her liking. “He had a girlfriend for a while. That was a nice relief. Concentrated on fixing someone else for a while.” She shook her head. “That’s the downside of knowing a person since you were five. You’re always five to them, no matter how old you get.”
“Wow. I don’t have any friends I’ve known that long. Must be a good guy if he’s made it this far.”
Etta swallowed the more scathing remarks that came to her mind. “Coop’s great. And really, he wasn’t this bad before. The past few months have been… a lot of change. When things get scary for him, he clings.”
“And
what do you do?” Anson looked up at her curiously. Her wavy chestnut hair was twisted in a messy bun with curls sticking out at odd ends. There was something about her blatant lack of polish he found endearing.
Etta shrugged, motioning around the empty house. “Isn’t it obvious? I hide.”
“Me too. Hence, the vacation to nowhere.” He fished out another bit of eggshell. “Huh. So he’s trying to cling to you, and all you want to do is run away? That doesn’t sound fun.”
“It’s not. But it is what it is, I guess. Can’t change the butter churn.”
“Huh?”
“Can’t change the butter churn? It’s an expression.”
“Not one I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re from LA. Do they even have butter churns there?”
Anson shook his head, giving the egg in his hand a studious crack. His eyes widened as he emptied out the goo into the bowl without a trace of the shell to pollute the mix. “Did you see that? I did it! I just cracked an egg!” His grin took up his entire face, revealing perfectly straight and perhaps unnaturally white teeth that Etta could not help but be fascinated by.
“Great job!” Etta smiled back at him. She had made twenty-three quiches in the time it took him to mix one, but the tradeoff of witnessing his pride in a job well done was worth the wait. “Look at you, Chef Gable. You’ll earn your apron yet.”
“Can I try it again? I’m just getting the hang of it. That last one was professional, wasn’t it?”
Etta giggled at his boyish enthusiasm. “Sure. Why don’t you make us some scrambled eggs?” When he admitted he had no knowledge of how to do that, Etta patiently walked him through the steps as she beat the quiche ingredients and poured the batter into the pie shell. She set the timer for the last pie before verbally assisting Chef Gable with his culinary mess. She kept her distance from him, instructing him from her seat atop the counter. He stiffened anytime she came near, so she decided not to make his addiction, or withdrawal, or neurosis, or whatever any harder on him.