“She gave me the advice that helped me pass my road test,” Sera said, uncomfortable now. Why did you have to bring that up, big-mouth? she chided herself.
“And what advice was that?” Asher’s eyes were alight now.
She squirmed a bit. “Well, I was really nervous the day I had to go take the test. I must have been seventeen or so. So I asked my aunt what I should do. She said, ‘I only got one piece of advice for you, kiddo.’” Sera imitated her aunt’s intonation with the ease of a lifetime’s familiarity. “‘You wanna pass your test, wear a tight shirt.’” Sera shrugged. “It worked.”
“I can see why it would,” Asher said, eyeing Sera’s cleavage, showcased by her V-necked white tee.
Sera flushed. You’re probably reading him wrong, Sera, she told herself. That, or you’ve been in the sun too long. He is not flirting with you. “Yeah, well, anyhow… I don’t really drive that much, but I always had this fantasy…” She should really not be discussing fantasies with this man. “This, dream, rather. That one day I’d have myself a really, I don’t know… unladylike… car. And that I’d totally own it—master it, if you know what I mean.” Sera rambled to a halt.
Asher’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I think I do. And speaking of ‘mastering’…” He stepped closer to Sera, and for a moment she had the crazy idea that he was going to snatch her into an embrace like some sort of movie brigand… until he reached around her and levered open the truck’s enormous steel door. “I think you should take your fantasies seriously, Bliss. Why else have you come here, if not to live your dreams?”
The abyss yawned, tempting. Sera took a leap…
Up, and into the truck’s cab.
Oh yeah. The view from up here made her feel instantly more badass. Taller. Stronger. And prepared to take a whole lot less shit. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Her heart rose, and she couldn’t resist beaming down at her landlord.
“I’ll go get the keys from the salesman,” Asher said.
Chapter Sixteen
It was a bare half hour before sunset when Sera roared down the gravel-strewn road toward Asher’s house in Arroyo Hondo, proud owner of a 1999 Ram with one hundred and fifty-seven thousand miles on it. Pauline and Hortencia, lips zipped against leaking disapproval, had headed home in the Subaru, leaving Sera to give Asher a ride back to his house.
Which she was doing to the best of her ability.
Thank God Asher had had all that military training, she thought. Had he not, his nerves might not have survived Sera’s maiden voyage in the truck she’d named, with some irony, “Cupcake.” But all things considered (and a few chamisa bushes notwithstanding), she’d done pretty well, following Asher’s instructions to the little community tucked away in the hills just south and east of Santa Fe proper. With the small part of her attention not engaged in keeping the one-and-a-quarter-ton truck on the rutted track, her eyes took in the environs—rolling hills, endless vistas stretching nearly a hundred miles into the mountains that limned the horizon like construction paper cutouts in varying shades of gray and blue, the clouds above orange and purple and rose with imminent dusk. Short piñon trees and scrub brush characterized the landscape, which felt somehow both wide open and strangely sheltering. Then Sera turned her attention back to the road, which was a bit too twisty for gawking greenhorns to take for granted.
At length, with almost no new scratches on her not-exactly-direct-from-the-factory paint job, they turned down Asher’s drive. Sera’s face broke out in a grin—one part pride that she’d wrangled Cupcake into doing her bidding, one part delight at the sight of the place where Asher lived.
The patio alone was worth the price of admission. Native stone paths embedded in fine gravel twined whimsically between garden beds bursting with lavender, rosemary, and sage bushes, forming a graceful trail leading guests to the front door. The door itself was an intricately carved Balinese design of birds and flowers, mellowing into obscurity against warm adobe walls. Beside it, a rustic portal of weathered poles gave shade where it leaned against the side of the house, several bird feeders swinging from its upper reaches. A ladder to nowhere—a phenomenon Sera saw nearly everywhere in Santa Fe—angled itself against the wall farther toward the back of the house. A brick-paved porch encircled by a low adobe wall created a welcoming space for an outdoor meal or a quiet moment of contemplation. All this Serafina took in with a sweeping glance that told her her landlord’s home was something special.
Sera’s breath caught as she turned the clunker carefully into the guest parking slot, trying not to slay any shrubbery as she muscled the truculent truck around the gravel turnabout. The turning radius on the old behemoth was… less than ideal. But she got the darn thing in Park and it either stalled out or turned off, she wasn’t sure which—and didn’t much care. She let out her breath in relief.
“Made it!” she said brightly.
Asher gave her a look she couldn’t quite place. Then he leaned over, across the gear shift, and dug one hand into her hair. He pulled her close to him, making Sera gasp, then planted a kiss…
On her forehead.
A brotherly—perhaps even patronizing—kiss.
Before Sera could react, he’d hopped from the truck, motorcycle boots kicking up little puffs of dust. “Come, Bliss,” he invited. “You must stay for dinner. After your adventure, you’ve got to be starving. I know I am.” He flashed her a grin as he slammed the truck’s door and came around to her side.
Is he really going to… Yes, he really was going to open her door for her, all chivalry, never mind that she was driving a truck so butch it practically took testosterone instead of gasoline.
Sera didn’t try to protest. She was starving, and besides, she was dying to see where Asher lived—and not so incidentally, to spend more time with him. Brotherly kiss or not, her heart was racing far more than her recent ride could account for. “Wow, um, sure,” she said, hopping the considerable distance down from the driver’s seat to the ground and reaching up to slam the door. “Dinner sounds awesome, if it’s not too much trouble. I mean, if you didn’t have any other plans or anything…”
“No other plans, Bliss,” he said, leading the way. “I’m all yours tonight.”
If only…
She trailed after him, clutching her keys in one hand and surreptitiously trying to smooth her disheveled hair with the other. Dinner with Asher was unexpected—intimidating, but so enticing she simply had to accept. “Just a sec,” she said, pausing on the patio. “Gotta check in with Aunt Pauline so she doesn’t worry.” Quickly, she sent her aunt a text message letting her know where she’d be and that she hadn’t had a gruesome accident in the “monstrosity,” as Pauline had dubbed her new truck. Almost instantly, Pauline flashed back a winky emoticon that Sera could swear was a leer, along with a message saying, “Atta girl! I won’t wait up.” Shaking her head at her aunt’s incorrigibility, she looked up at Asher. “Okay, all good now. Lay on, Macduff.”
With a small flourish that reminded her of the first time they’d met at P-HOP, he invited her to precede him, and Sera smiled as she passed before him into the house.
Her smile grew as she took in the interior.
The entire right side of Asher’s living room was one long wall of glass. Floods of evening sunshine slanted in from the patio, filtered through passive solar windows and the leaves of his ever-present plants. Everywhere, foliage made itself at home, trailing vines, poking up proudly from pots, hanging from rafters. The perfume of growing things scented the air with a subtle, earthy tang and provided a trace of precious humidity. To the left, a galley kitchen with acres of polished wood counters branched off from the living room. A wall of built-in bookshelves, packed to capacity with novels and biographies in both Hebrew and English, was tucked to one side, with doorways leading out of sight to the left and right. Sera’s eyes took in waxed brick floors, heavy viga beams, skylights, and at the far end of the room, a woodstove. To her, the very thought conjured image
s of Laura Ingalls roughing it on the prairie, but even Aunt Pauline had one, so she supposed it was a legitimate method of heating out here in the high desert.
A magnificent walnut and hickory dining table set took pride of place near the front of the living room by the kitchen, glowing with polish and looking like the heirloom it surely was. The rest of the room was strangely empty however, Sera noticed. There were no pictures or personal mementos. For someone who took as much care with his shop environs as Asher did, the unfinished quality of his house was marked. As though, Sera thought, his heart was more in his work than in his home. The only seating, aside from the elegant dining room chairs, was one old corduroy-covered armchair slouched in a corner by the woodstove, begging for a cat or a dog to flop down on its saggy cushions.
As if she knew she was wanted, Sascha trundled out from around a corner, tongue lolling and doggy lips turned up in a grin. When she saw her master, she gave a soft woof, quickened her pace, and hastened to stuff her long gray nose right in his chino-covered crotch.
Sera’s cheeks burned, but Asher just gave the bitch a scratch behind the ears and gently shooed her away from his family jewels. “Sweet Sascha,” he murmured, “we have a guest. Be polite.”
Sascha obligingly turned to Sera and gave her the same treatment.
Sera was saved from death by dog-induced embarrassment by the arrival of Silver, who galloped into the room and playfully latched on to his mother’s plume-like tail. Sascha nipped remonstratively at her offspring, then both pooches sat on their haunches and looked up at Asher, plainly expectant.
“I believe refreshments are in order, if I’m any judge of canine communication,” he said lightly. “Come! Dinner!” He strode off into the kitchen, huskies scrambling after him in their haste to be fed. Sera snapped to attention and nearly followed along before she realized he hadn’t meant her. She smiled sheepishly.
As he poured kibble into a bowl, Asher called back to Sera, “May I offer you something to drink, Bliss? A glass of wine, or a beer?”
Oh God. Here it came. That awkward moment every sober alcoholic faced a thousand times. Maybe she could finesse it. But instead of her usual “I’m on antibiotics” or “I get migraines,” Sera found herself blurting out, “Um, I don’t drink anymore. That is… I, ah, quit a while back.”
Her whole psyche cringed. Way to blow it, Serafina, she groaned inwardly. Asher seriously didn’t need to know about her struggles with the bottle. I might as well have worn a T-shirt that says, “Boozer on Board,” she thought grimly. But somehow she hadn’t been able to lie to Asher.
Asher didn’t blink. “How about a soda or an iced tea?” he asked mildly. “Or I can make coffee, if you prefer.”
Whoa. He wasn’t going to ask? Sera was as taken aback as she was relieved. Experience had shown her that people either got really squirrelly and awkward when she copped to her alcoholism (often the ones with drinking problems themselves), or they peppered her with uncomfortable questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. Or worse, tried to convince her she didn’t need to quit drinking—she didn’t look like an alcoholic, after all. But Asher did none of those things. He simply accepted what she said, and moved on.
Flustered by the warmth that blossomed in her chest, Sera shifted her weight and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Maybe just some ice water? Driving Cupcake is thirsty work,” she joked lamely.
“Coming right up. Please, have a seat,” he invited, gesturing to the dining chairs. “I’m sorry I can’t make you more comfortable, but the puppies pretty much ate the couch, so I had to toss it. I don’t have much in the way of furniture left.”
“Except this gorgeous table,” Sera said, stroking her fingers across the fine-grained walnut and tracing the seamlessly inlaid diamond patterns worked in lighter hickory as she seated herself. “Wherever did you find such a beautiful dining set?”
Asher busied himself taking a glass down from a cabinet and filling it with ice. “It was a wedding gift from my father-in-law,” he said, not looking at her. “He was a woodworker, and he made it to surprise my wife and I…”
Asher stopped, as if the memory were too painful.
“Oh,” said Sera. Her heart ached for him, but there was a small, petty part of herself that ached for a different reason. Clearly, her landlord wasn’t over whatever event had scarred his past—and he wasn’t over the woman he’d lost. If she were a truly decent person, she would be comforting him, not lusting after him. But what if I make it worse? She did want to ask him about his wife—was she dead, had they divorced, had she run off?—but she wasn’t prepared to ruin the evening by gauchely blundering into Asher’s private pain, as she feared she might. Besides, she sensed very clearly that he wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. She had to respect that, even if it left her burning with questions. When he set the water down in front of her, Sera guzzled it a bit too fast, spilling some down her chin. Her cheeks flamed. “See? Told you I had a drinking problem,” she quipped, hoping for at least a chuckle.
Asher didn’t laugh. Instead he leaned down and traced his thumb along the path the droplets had taken, wiping her skin of stray moisture. Sera gulped as their eyes met. An instant surge of desire rocketed through her system, nearly taking her breath away. Did he feel it, too?
He wasn’t admitting it if he was. He pivoted back to his kitchen, calling lightly over his shoulder, “Let me see what I can scrounge up for us to eat.”
God, he was the perfect man. An artisan, a musician, a wizard with plants and animals. And now, her own personal chef.
Ten minutes later, Sera learned that wasn’t quite true.
Asher was a hopeless cook.
He was all sound and fury, banging pots and sizzling pans, but if the acrid smoke and the muttered cursing in Hebrew were any indication, her landlord’s talents did not extend to the culinary arts.
“Need any help there?” she ventured after he slid the unidentifiable results of his efforts straight from the frying pan into the trash—for the second time. “It is what I do for a living, after all.”
Asher turned to face her. For the first time since they’d met, his cocksure composure had slipped just a crack, and there was a harried look on his face. “I’m a bit nervous,” he confessed.
“You’re nervous?” her voice went up a notch in disbelief.
“I haven’t cooked for a woman since my wife…” He stopped, looked chagrined. “Well, not for many years. And never for a famous chef,” he said more lightly. “I can only imagine what standards you’re used to.”
“Mr. Wolf,” she said with mock solemnity. “Let me make a suggestion here.”
“By all means,” he said with the same seriousness.
“Get your buns out of the kitchen and let a professional take over.”
In the end he didn’t leave the kitchen, but he proved to be as good a sous chef as he was lousy at taking the lead, culinarily speaking. At her direction, he washed, sliced, and diced meekly, if less than deftly. There wasn’t much to work with—typical male, his fridge was pretty barren—but Sera managed to unearth some tomatoes (homegrown from his garden, of course), mushrooms, a hunk of mozzarella, some avocado and basil (also from Asher’s garden), and a half-dozen eggs. With practiced movements, she built two respectable omelets and, within minutes, slid them onto the stoneware plates Asher provided. “There,” she said. “Not fancy, but they’ll do.”
“They’re beautiful,” Asher said, with a bit more admiration than Sera thought was warranted. He held up the plates and examined them from every angle, as if they were a set of sculptures on Canyon Road he was considering buying. “I could never master such a fantastic omelet; not with a hundred years of practice.”
She flushed at the compliment and immediately tried to deflect it. “And here I thought omelets were the one food every man knew how to make. Isn’t it, like, in the guy handbook that you’re supposed to be able to make morning-after eggs?”
“I would hate to fail you so egg-regio
usly on so important an occasion as the morning after,” Asher said with a grin at his own pun.
Sera looked down, more flustered by the thought of a “morning after” with Asher than amused at his wordplay. To him, it might just be light banter, but to her… well, hell. She could feel herself falling for this delightful, inscrutable man in a way she simply couldn’t afford to allow… but couldn’t seem to prevent either. All she could think was that the morning after with Asher would be… glorious.
Maybe for most women, Sera, she told herself flatly. For you, it would be an exercise in humiliation. You’d have to sneak out like some college kid doing the walk of shame after you disappointed him in the sack the way you surely would. Remember how Blake used to look at you after sex? Like he’d just been forced to ingest Starbucks instead of his usual Jamaican Blue Mountain? You can’t forget that, or you’re in for a world of hurt. Don’t ruin things here the way you did back home.
“Shall we eat?” she said, rather too abruptly. Sera practically snatched the plates from Asher and set them down on the table. She was relieved to discover she hadn’t lost her touch—and if Asher’s happy moans were any indication, he thought the same, wolfing the simple omelet down with alacrity. In fact, he looked so mournfully at his empty plate when he finished that she ended up making him a second helping. It did her heart good to watch him gobble her cooking. She so rarely had the opportunity to cook for just one person—and never for a person as fascinating as Asher. At least in this, Sera knew she shined.
“I could make dessert,” she offered. “I thought I saw some stuff in your fridge that might make a nice crème caramel. Or I could whip up some cookies…”
Asher shook his head, placing a hand lightly over hers when she made to rise from the table. She couldn’t help noticing the fine shape of that hand—long, lean fingers and raw knuckles, calluses and faint scars. A man’s hand. And it lay over hers on the table where he and his wife had shared so many meals. Sera gulped.
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