While she washed her hands, Hunter stood to one side and from the corner of her eye she could tell he was doing a little watching of his own.
He wasn’t doing it too openly. His gaze was aimed at his hands as he went on drying them. But Terese could tell he was looking past his hands—right at her rear end hiding behind the blue jeans she wore and the hem of her shirt that fell just to her hipbones. And it occurred to her that their kiss might have had some lingering effects on him, too.
“Okay, so tell me where you learned to cook,” Hunter said when Terese had finished washing and drying her hands and had begun to measure the ingredients for oatmeal cookies as Hunter prepared the cookie sheets.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that,” she confessed.
“You ran away from home one summer and became a short-order cook to support yourself,” he guessed.
“Not quite,” she said, wishing it had been that adventurous. “Actually, I think I told you that Eve and I spent the summers in Europe. Our paternal grandmother has lived in Paris most of her life and our father would send us to her as soon as school was out—he said we needed a woman’s attention. But Grandmother never knew what to do with us, either. When we were little, she just left us with the au pair, but as we got older, we needed more to keep us busy. More that didn’t involve Grandmother.”
“You went all the way to Europe to spend the summers with your grandmother but you needed to do things that didn’t involve her? Were you okay with that?” Hunter asked.
Terese shrugged. “Was I okay with having absentee parents and grandparents?”
Hunter nodded, his brow creased in a frown that looked disturbed by what he was hearing.
“I really never knew anything else. That was just the way things were. For my sister and I, and for everyone else we knew.”
“Other kids from boarding school or kids whose parents ran in the same circles your family did?”
“Right. My father and grandmother—and the families of kids we knew—were just into… Well, themselves and their own interests. They weren’t into being hands-on parents or grandparents. That’s what nannies were for.”
“Nannies and au pairs and boarding schools,” Hunter said, his disapproval echoing in his voice.
Terese nodded. She didn’t take offense. She’d long ago decided that if she ever had children of her own she wouldn’t be the kind of parent her parents and grandparents had been.
“So your grandmother sent you off to summer boarding school to learn to be a cook?” Hunter asked.
In the course of their conversation the first pan of cookies had been put into the oven and the timer went off now to let Terese know they were done.
She took the pan out, put a second one in and returned to the kitchen table where she worked and Hunter was now sitting on one of the chairs watching.
“Eve was easier to engage every summer,” Terese went on. “She liked shopping and beauty spas and luncheons and teas. But I got bored with those things fast and I’d ditch her to stay in the kitchen with the cook. When Grandmother realized that was what I was doing, she enrolled me in summer classes at a French cooking school. Not a boarding school, though, just a place where I went during the daytime. Every summer for quite a few years.”
“So you’re an accomplished chef and you just didn’t want to brag,” Hunter concluded.
“I don’t know how accomplished I am. I rarely get the chance to use what I learned. But I do know how to cook.”
“And you have a skill you could fall back on if bad times ever hit the Warwick clan. I can just see it—you in the kitchen and Eve waiting tables at the Warwick All-You-Can-Eat Buffet.”
Terese laughed out loud. “Or maybe we’d call it Warwick’s Wieners and Wings, and I’d hire Johnny to roast marshmallows for dessert.”
“No extra charge for dropping them on the ground on the way to the table,” Hunter contributed, laughing along with her.
Then he said, “Well, regardless of where you learned or why, the fried chicken tonight was the best I’ve ever had and I really appreciate you making cookies for Johnny’s party. Sometimes I’m not so good at being dad and mom.”
To Terese that seemed like her second opportunity of the day to bring up the subject of his wife, to maybe get him to continue what Carla had begun and tell her about the woman who had mothered Johnny for the first two years of his life.
But for a moment Terese was torn between her own nagging curiosity and that thought she’d had earlier about not wanting Hunter to be reminded of his late wife. His beautiful late wife.
Only now the nagging curiosity got the better of her and she couldn’t pass up what felt like an open door.
Keeping her gaze intently on the cookie dough she was dropping from an ice cream scoop onto the other sheet, she said, “Carla said your wife made good fried chicken.”
“She did,” Hunter answered. He didn’t offer more than that, though, and Terese wasn’t sure if she should persist or not.
She decided to give it one more try.
“Carla said the smell in the house today gave her déjà vu. Did it do that to you, too? Did it bring back memories of your wife?”
“A lot of things do, but the smell of fried chicken today didn’t, no,” he said, stopping there as if that was the end of the conversation.
Okay, so maybe he didn’t want to talk about his wife. Terese decided she wouldn’t push it.
But then, just when she thought Hunter wasn’t going to say more, he did.
“So Carla flashed back on Margee, huh?”
“She said she did. To a picnic you all went on.”
Hunter nodded. “We had some good times together,” he said. There was nostalgia in his tone but not sadness, so Terese amended her decision not to push the subject of his wife and said, “You and Willy were best friends and Carla and your wife were best friends, Carla said.”
“True.”
“So how did the two couples come about? Was Willy dating Carla and they introduced you to your wife, or what?”
“There wasn’t really any introducing, no. We all went to the same high school, the one in the suburb nearest to here, where Carla and Willy still live and where we’ll take Johnny trick-or-treating tomorrow night. Willy and I were friends from the fifth grade, when his family moved to Oregon. Carla was in our sixth grade class and even then Willy did a lot of showing off for her in spite of swearing that he didn’t like her. Then Margee came in the ninth grade. She moved in next door to Carla the summer before and they became fast friends.”
“Were Carla and Willy dating already in the eighth grade?”
“No, it was still more of him watching her from afar. They didn’t start what you’d call dating until we were sophomores, and by then I kind of had my eye on Margee. We’d had a couple of classes together, passed each other in the hall, that kind of thing.”
“Did Carla and Willy have anything to do with you getting together with her?”
“They encouraged it, the way kids do. They thought I should ask her to the homecoming dance.”
“Did you?” Terese inquired as she took another sheet of cookies out of the oven and put one more in.
“I did. And she said no.”
Terese laughed. “Uh-oh.”
“I’d waited too long and she already had a date. But I took her to the movies the week after homecoming.”
“And you were together from then on?”
“Pretty much. She left for a while to pursue the modeling thing. That’s what she did.”
“Carla told me.”
“But once she was getting fairly regular work and was established with an agency, she came back here and we got married three weeks before Willy and Carla did.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Eight—almost nine—years.”
“So you’d only been married about three years when you decided to adopt a baby? I mean, I know it takes some time for the paperwork and everything, and Johnny is fou
r…”
“Actually Margee wanted kids right away. But she had an ectopic pregnancy early on that did some damage and after that she just couldn’t seem to conceive again. That was why we went the adoption route. And it was two years after we filed the initial paperwork before we got Johnny.”
“And only another two years before you lost her,” Terese said quietly.
Hunter nodded and this time there was an air of sadness to it. “She was on her way to shoot a swimsuit catalog in California. It was a remote shoot, she had to take a helicopter to the location, and the helicopter went down. There were no survivors.”
“You must have been devastated.”
“I don’t even remember those first few months. I think I was a zombie. I just got up in the morning, put one foot in front of the other, and did whatever I could to get through the day. Willy and Carla stayed close and filled in whatever gaps I left.”
“What about Johnny? How much of it could he grasp at two?”
“Not much. He just kept asking for her. Crying for her. There was no way to make him understand what had happened. I tried, but he was just too small. All I could do was keep saying that his mom was gone, that she couldn’t come back. Eventually he gave up.”
“Having him ask for her, cry for her, must have made it even harder on you,” Terese said, her own voice cracking with sympathy.
“Broke my heart all over again every time. But we got through it,” Hunter added on a note of resignation and resiliency.
“And since then?” Terese asked, unable to restrain her curiosity. “Have you dated at all?”
Hunter laughed a wry laugh. “Nope.”
“You must have had the chance,” Terese persisted.
“Doesn’t matter. Once I got my head above water after Margee’s death, I sorted through where I thought my life and Johnny’s should go. Of course I thought about dating. But it just seemed like Johnny should be my central focus, that anyone else I brought into the mix would detract from the attention he needed, the attention I wanted to give him. So I put a moratorium on getting involved with anyone and that meant no dating.”
Terese wondered how her being there and what they were doing—whatever it was they were doing— fit into that. But she didn’t ask. Instead, she said, “What about now? Does Johnny talk about his mother?”
Hunter didn’t seem to think it odd that she’d veered from the topic of dating and merely answered her question. “He talks about her some, here and there. But not all that much. He understands that she died, although I’m not sure what his concept of that is. I think it’s more that he just doesn’t have much memory of her so she doesn’t seem real to him.”
“Does he not remember her at all?” Terese asked, removing another pan of cookies from the oven when the timer went off and putting in the last sheet.
“He seems to have some vague memories, but that’s about it. It’s too bad, too, because Margee was a great mom and she loved Johnny like nothing I’ve ever seen. She was just a great person all the way around. She was warm and sweet and kind and generous and patient and giving and…”
When he paused suddenly Terese stopped putting cooled cookies into the cookie tin where she was stacking them and glanced at him, worried that he was too upset to continue.
But that wasn’t the case. Instead she saw Hunter looking at her as if he’d just renewed his focus on her.
Then he said, “There were a lot of things about Margee that aren’t unlike you, now that I think about it.”
“Me?” Terese parroted in amazement. “I’m a long way from being a model.”
Hunter ignored that. “Margee was someone who had a lot more going for her than her looks. And she took it all for granted. She was oblivious to what made her really special.”
And he thinks I’m like that? Special? Terese thought in amazement.
That possibility flattered and embarrassed her at the same time and she could feel her cheeks turning red.
“Let me get this mess cleaned up,” she muttered and took the empty bowl to the sink.
Hunter must have seen the blush and she was grateful that he gave her a few minutes to regroup. He stacked more of the cookies in the tin, while she rinsed the dishes and utensils and put them in the dishwasher.
The timer rang and she took that last sheet of cookies out of the oven, continuing to keep herself occupied while she dealt with what he’d said and the effect it had on her.
The effect he had on her—not only with his words, but also with those eyes that followed her.
Those eyes that emanated such warmth that, despite the fact that they’d just been talking about his wife, Terese began to believe Hunter actually did see her in her own light. That he did see her as special.
It wasn’t until she was rinsing the sink that he finally stood and joined her. When he did, he didn’t just come to stand beside her. He turned his back to the counter and partially insinuated himself in front of her, facing her so he could peer down into her eyes.
“Are you done being embarrassed?” he asked, in a voice that was low, gentle, quiet. And very intimate.
Terese managed a small smile. “Not quite,” she said, only half joking.
Hunter laid his forehead against hers. “I’d like to erase every not-nice thing anyone has ever said to you,” he whispered. “And convince you how terrific you are.”
Terese couldn’t help smiling, and blushing, all over again.
But this time Hunter didn’t give her any space in which to suffer her discomfort. This time he stayed where he was, studying her, smiling affectionately.
Then he kissed her forehead, lingering and letting the heat of his breath bathe her skin for a moment. Long enough for her to forget all about being embarrassed. To forget all about how his late wife had looked. To forget about everything but how good it was to have him there.
He abandoned her brow then and brought a single finger to curve under her chin, to tip it up so he could press his mouth to hers.
That initial kiss was very tender. But the one that followed was deeper. More serious. He slid his hand from under her chin to cup the back of her head, to brush tiny strokes of his thumb up into her hair.
With a will of their own, her arms went around him and Terese pressed her palms to his shoulder blades while their lips met and separated and met again. Deliberately. Lazily. Leisurely.
At least it was deliberate and lazy and leisurely for a time. Until that was all replaced with a stronger need, a hunger that grew steadily, making those kisses more intense, more demanding.
Hunter moved completely between her and the counter, taking her fully into his arms, holding her tightly against his long, lean length and turning her so that their positions were reversed and it was Terese whose back was to the counter’s edge as his mouth opened wide over hers and his tongue came to plunder and please.
Then he slid his hands down her sides, to her hips and back again, stopping at her waist where he tightened his grip and lifted her to sit on the countertop so they were at equal heights. Her legs straddled him when he finessed them apart so he could step into their V.
Terese had a fleeting thought of decorum—or the lack of it in that position—but it was only fleeting, chased away by too many other, better thoughts. And feelings. And sensations.
Once again her hands had a will of their own and they coursed from his back to his sides and up his front, ending at honed pectorals. It was a path she longed for his hands to take on her body, to satisfy the nipples that were kerneled and straining for notice.
Hunter pulled her slightly forward, balanced on the edge of the countertop where he urged her to wrap her legs around him, to hook her ankles behind his waist as his kisses grew more frenzied.
Terese’s fingers and flattened palms were in Hunter’s hair one minute, tracing the breadth of his shoulders the next, the narrowing V of his back the minute after that. She just couldn’t get her fill of the feel of that hard body that ranch work had perfected, so, wit
hout thinking about anything but the pure desire to be free of interference, she pulled his shirt tails from his jeans.
No sooner had she slipped her hands underneath to the satin over steel of his naked back than Hunter took her lead and reached under the hem of her own shirt.
Warm, strong, intriguingly callused hands pressed against her flesh and sent tiny shards of sparkling promise all through her, promise of more as he massaged and kneaded her back.
Terese arched her spine and let those tiny knots of desire that were her nipples meet Hunter’s chest, hinting at needs she wasn’t sure he understood.
But apparently he did, because while one hand braced her from behind, the other finally answered that need by covering her breast.
The only flaw was the bra she wore. Even that scant bit of lace was too much of a barrier and she was so, so happy when Hunter reached inside the cup to take that engorged globe into his palm.
His mouth left hers then to kiss her neck, from a sensitive spot right below her earlobe all the way to her collarbone. Kissing. Nibbling. Flicking the tip of his tongue here and there and leaving little damp spots to air dry and send chills of delight dancing along the surface of her skin.
Then he kissed another path to the hollow of her throat, all the while kneading her breast, rolling her nipple between gentle fingertips, lightly pinching and pulling and driving her level of need even higher.
So high she began to fantasize about clothes being shed. About unbuttoning Hunter’s shirt. About slipping it off those massive shoulders. About baring his chest to her gaze, to her hands, to her mouth. About unfastening his belt buckle, his waistband button, his zipper…
But that was when her old familiar self-doubts chose to rear their ugly head again, warning her that if she threw off Hunter’s clothes the way she wanted to, her own would follow. That not only would he be left bare for her to see, but that she would be left exposed to him, too.
And she didn’t think she could do that.
Not when they’d just spent so much time talking about his wife.
His beautiful wife.
For Love and Family Page 12
