She picked up the vase and found the perfect spot for it in the living room near a large window. The flowers would get plenty of sunlight there and their colors gave a nice pop to the room. She flopped back down onto the couch, put her feet up, and waited for Mo to settle himself half-on, half-off her lap. Remote in hand, she unpaused the TV show as her eyes were pulled to the left toward the bouquet.
Plus, I can see them from here.
Catching herself, she shook the thought from her head and forced herself to relax. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving and there would be a ton to do. She would have no time to dwell on anything in regard to Emily Breckenridge or the ridiculous splurge that those flowers must have been, thank God, because this was bad. Wasn’t it? It was bad. There was a line. They both knew it. They both saw it, didn’t they? But the brainstorming and the coffee date and the flowers—all the damn flowers—were pulling them dangerously close to that line. And while Catherine knew she needed to step back, step away from the line, move in the opposite direction…some part of her didn’t want to.
She groaned, causing Mo to stop what he was doing and look up at her with concern in his doggie eyes. Even he seemed to know.
This was very, very bad.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE THANKSGIVING CHAOS OF Emily’s parents’ house had died down to a more palatable level, but it had been pretty crazy for a while there. Having more than two toddlers running around was a fairly solid recipe for noise. Emily didn’t enjoy sitting in the living room or the study chatting with the adults; she’d much rather roll around on the floor with the kids. So that’s exactly what she’d done. And now, after stuffing herself full of turkey and dressing and cranberries, she was reasonably certain she was about to bust out of her pants. Not to mention, she felt a couple of welts and bruises that had appeared in moments when she’d forgotten how solidly a pudgy, three-year-old fist could land on the soft flesh of her arm or how interested toddlers with new teeth were in putting things into their mouths—things like the fingers of other people.
Emily had been comfortably recovering in an oversized leather chair for the past half hour. Football was on the enormous television mounted above the gas fireplace, which was kicking out just the right amount of heat to push the tryptophan-dosed members of the Breckenridge clan dangerously close to napping. Two identical easy chairs were at one end of the room. Emily’s father dozed in one, Clark sprawled in the other. Three cousins sat on the couch while two younger ones sat on the floor scrolling on their phones. The rest of the family—mostly the women who had no interest in the game—was still in the dining room. Occasional bursts of laughter would emanate from that direction, causing Emily to smile when she picked out her mom’s.
“Hey.” Emily looked up into the smiling face of her cousin Melinda, mother to two of Emily’s wrestling opponents from earlier. “Both my kids are conked right out in the guest room upstairs. Thank you so much for playing with them.”
“You’re welcome. I had a blast. And I am going to sleep good tonight.” Emily grinned.
“Well, then, you are welcome.” Melinda gently patted Emily’s foot, then crossed the room to sit next to her husband on the couch.
As Emily watched them cuddle together, her mother’s voice caught her attention from the doorway. “Who’s ready for dessert?” She looked beautiful in a simple but elegant green dress and silver pumps. Cheryl Breckenridge rarely did not look beautiful. At the very least, she always had an air of refined sophistication about her. When she walked into a room, not only did everybody look, but she commanded instant respect. And she got it. Emily could only hope to be that admired one day.
“What are the options?” Clark asked from his chair, his socked feet up, a glass of wine in his hand. Something about the combination of his position and his tone made Emily roll her eyes and she suddenly wanted to be away from him. It was a feeling she was finding all too familiar lately.
“Actually,” she said, rising from her seat. “I’m going to go visit a friend.”
Her mother looked surprised. “You are?”
“Yeah, I was invited for dessert, so I thought I’d make an appearance. No big deal.”
“Who are you visiting?” Clark asked, just as her mother asked the same question.
Forcing a nonchalant shrug, Emily told the truth. “Catherine Gardner from Junebug Farms.”
Cheryl raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you were friends.”
“Oh, Emily wants to be more than friends,” Clark said waggling his eyebrows in the most suggestive way possible.
“Shut up, Clark. I do not.”
“You want to win the bet, don’t you?”
“Oh, my God,” Emily said, suddenly exasperated. “There is no bet.”
“What bet?” Cheryl asked.
“There’s no bet,” Emily said again, walking around her mother to the coat closet.
“I bet Em that I could land Catherine before she could.” Clark had pushed the footrest of his chair down and he was sitting upright, his face suddenly animated and energetic. The others in the room looked on with rapt attention.
Emily’s mother looked properly aghast as she glanced in her daughter’s direction.
“There’s no bet, Mom,” Emily reassured her as she pushed an arm into her coat.
“There had better not be,” Cheryl said, clear disapproval in her voice. She turned her gaze to her son, who visibly withered, if only a little bit. “First of all, we give money to that place and we have a reputation to uphold. Secondly, that’s incredibly sexist, Clark, and I’ll have no more of it.”
From behind her mother, Emily stuck her tongue out at her brother. Melinda chuckled from her spot on the couch.
Cheryl turned back to her daughter. “And third, there had better not be a bet.” The emphasis this time was solid, urgent, and left no room for argument. “Is that understood?”
Emily swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cheryl leaned in for a peck on the cheek, her demeanor back to normal. “Watch your driving.”
“I will.”
Emily managed to snag a bottle of Zinfandel from her mother’s wine rack before scooting out the front door. Then she got into her car, plugged in her phone, and called up the address Catherine had given. When the navigation came up on the console screen, Emily looked at it and stared for a moment, her mother’s voice echoing in her head.
And yet, she very consciously reached out and slid the gearshift into Reverse.
Fifteen minutes later, she was pushing the glowing doorbell button on a cute little bungalow just outside the city. The night air was brisk, but Emily liked it, inhaling, pulling the cold into her lungs. It energized her somehow, as did the thought of seeing Catherine—though she didn’t dwell on that too much as her mother’s voice rang sharply in her ears.
The door was opened by a woman who could only be Catherine’s mother. She was tall and lean, with hair the same chestnut color as Catherine’s and the same soft cheekbones. Only their eye color was different; this woman’s were a gentle brown as opposed to Catherine’s cool blue.
“Hi,” Emily said. “Is Catherine here? I’m Emily Breckenridge. She invited me for dessert.”
The woman’s smile widened. “Yes, she’s inside. Come in. Come in.” She stepped back, and she seemed genuinely happy to invite Emily into the warmth of the house. It was small and the dining room table, occupied by a handful of people, was visible now that Emily was inside. She smiled and locked eyes with Catherine, whose face showed an odd mix of emotions. A lot of surprise. A little panic. A glimmer of happiness. Emily saw them all in quick succession. Amusing, she thought.
“Let me take your coat,” the woman said, then laughed. “And where are my manners?” She held out a hand. “I’m Denise. Catherine’s mother.”
Emily shook the offered hand, took in how much Denise’s smile mirrored Catherine’s. Denise was definitely more…worn. It wasn’t a flattering word, but it was an accurate one. The woman w
as attractive, certainly, but she also gave the impression that she had worked very hard her entire life and probably still did. Emily suspected Denise looked tired pretty much every day.
She was pulled from her musings by a wet nose pushing at her hand and she looked down to see Geronimo, tail wagging like crazy. Emily squatted down to give him attention. “Hey there, pal. How are you? Hmm?”
Following Denise into the small dining room, she took in the occupants. An older couple that could only be Catherine’s grandparents, he sitting at the head of the table, she on his right. Catherine was on her grandfather’s left. An empty chair sat next to her that must belong to Denise. Across the table was a woman with bleached-blond hair and the same worn look Denise had. Emily guessed this to be the sister. Next to her was a young man of maybe nineteen or twenty.
“Everybody, this is Catherine’s friend, Emily, who is joining us for dessert. Jason, get another chair, honey.”
Everybody stood and welcomed Emily with outstretched hands and smiles. She handed the Zinfandel to Emily’s grandmother, who ooh’d and ahh’d like Emily had handed her gold jewelry. It was sweet and Emily liked her instantly.
Once settled in her chair next to Catherine, Emily turned and met her gaze.
“Hi.”
Catherine grinned at her, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Hi.”
“Pumpkin pie, Emily?” Catherine’s grandmother, Bea, asked.
“I’d love some. Thank you.” Within seconds, a pretty china plate with a large slice of homemade pie slid her way. A glass of wine was set next to her and soon everybody was eating dessert, sipping drinks, talking and laughing as if they did so every day and Emily was simply an accepted part of it all. The cherry on top was when Mo settled down under the table with his chin on Emily’s foot.
Next to her sat Catherine, and Emily had never been so hyper-aware of anybody before in her life. It was a brand-new feeling for her and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. While she didn’t actually turn to look at her all that often, she was alert to everything Catherine said, to every move she made, to the very specific timbre of her voice when she spoke. She could smell her body wash, her shampoo, and her perfume, all separately, all intoxicating. The royal blue of the sweater she was wearing filled Emily’s vision any time she turned her head, and it looked so soft she had trouble not reaching out to touch the sleeve of it.
Needing to shake herself free of this delicious prison she’d found herself in, she spoke. “This pie is delicious,” she said, scooping another bite into her mouth.
“Thank you,” Denise said, her face flushing a light pink, so much like her daughter’s tended to.
“Did you make it?”
“I did.” Denise gave a slight nod.
“Aunt Denise is always in charge of the pies,” Jason, the teenager, told her. Emily again put him at maybe nineteen or twenty. College age. His sandy hair was a bit too long, and he tossed his head to get it out of his eyes. He wore black-rimmed glasses and seemed slightly awkward, but in that adorable way that made you want to protect him.
“Do you volunteer at the shelter?” Catherine’s grandfather, John, asked.
“Sometimes. Yes.” Emily nodded as she scooped another piece of pie.
“Grandpa. She’s Emily Breckenridge.” Catherine put emphasis on the last name.
“Oh,” John said. Then his eyes opened wide. “Oh! Breckenridge.” With a chuckle he said, “So, you keep the place running then, do you?”
“I don’t get it,” Catherine’s sister, Vicky, said. She hadn’t said much since Emily had sat down, but she’d felt the woman’s eyes on her more than once.
“The Breckenridge Foundation, Mom,” Jason said, leaning toward Vicky. “They donate a lot of money to a lot of causes, including Junebug Farms.”
“Oh. So, you’re rich. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Geez, Vicky. Tactless much?” Catherine laid a warm hand on Emily’s thigh and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Surprised she was able to form coherent words with Catherine’s hand on her (and did she leave it there longer than necessary? Emily was pretty sure she did…), she shrugged. “No, no, it’s fine.” Turning to meet Vicky’s gaze, she said simply. “Yup. Filthy stinking.”
Denise choked on a swallow of wine and Emily saw Bea cover her grin with her fingers while John chuckled openly. Vicky flushed red (must run in the family) and Emily felt Catherine squeeze her thigh before removing her hand.
Emily looked around the table at this small family, at their smiles, felt the warmth of the holiday in the happy voices. More than that, she felt the presence of Catherine right next to her, solid and sexy and gorgeous, and that overshadowed everything else because—damn it—she liked Catherine right next to her. Which was not good, her mother’s voice was too quick to tell her.
Except that it felt good. It felt right.
When her mother’s voice got louder, Emily did her best to tamp it down by focusing on the story Bea was telling about the bird-watching group she’d joined recently. Catherine’s eyes were on her grandmother, but when she glanced at Emily and smiled, Emily’s entire lower body tingled and she wanted to sit at that table forever.
And all she could think was, Rules be damned. At least for tonight.
***
Monday came too soon as far as Catherine was concerned. She’d had the day off from the shelter on Friday, it was true, but she’d waited tables at Joplin’s Friday and Saturday. Both nights had been packed houses, which was awesome for her tips, but not so awesome for her aching feet. She spent Sunday taking Geronimo for a long walk (again, making her feet less than happy, though her dog was ecstatic) and cleaning her house. Monday morning’s alarm had gone off way too early and she very nearly chucked her phone across the room when it had.
Now, Mo was curled up on his dog bed in the corner of her office as she answered e-mails and phone calls. The shelter was quiet so far, but the holidays were in full swing and Catherine knew from experience that things would be picking up very soon. She’d closed her door to keep some of the residual, everyday noises out, hoping that would help her tired brain concentrate. Unfortunately, she found herself flashing back to Thanksgiving over and over again. Well, not Thanksgiving exactly.
Thanksgiving dessert. And Emily.
She blew out a long, slow breath. Emily.
What the hell was she supposed to do about Emily?
Catherine had been nothing less than shocked when Emily had shown up at her grandparents’ door. Sure, she’d been invited, been given the address even, but Catherine never really thought she’d show. Who does that? Chuckling at her own question, she answered it aloud with, “Does what? Shows up someplace after they’re invited? Yeah, pretty much everybody.”
Mo lifted his head and looked at her, obviously wondering if she was talking to him. After a beat or two, he went back to napping while Catherine gazed out the window at the gently falling snow, her shoulders slightly hunched against the chill in her office. Emily had fit right in, had slid seamlessly into her family gathering…which she was still having trouble understanding. How had it been so easy? True, Catherine hadn’t exactly been happy to see her at first. (Okay, that was a lie…she’d been a little bit happy to see her.) But from the moment she’d sat down at the table, it was like she belonged there, like she’d been sitting in that spot at the table, right next to Catherine, for years. She’d even handled Vicky’s attempt to establish dominance with class and wit, facing her head-on instead of withering away or trying to deflect. Catherine was pretty sure she’d earned Vicky’s grudging respect in that moment.
There had been no pressure for Catherine. That was the weirdest part for her. No pressure to be a buffer, to answer questions for her, to smooth the way. With Anna, that’s all Catherine had ever done. She’d been like Anna’s interpreter, translating for her, leading her by the hand, asking the questions she was too shy to ask. Catherine couldn’t count the number of times they’d left a family gatherin
g of one sort or another and all she’d wanted to do was take a handful of Excedrin and a long nap.
Emily hadn’t been exhausting. She’d been fun. And funny. And intelligent. And entertaining. The whole family had adored her and Catherine’s grandmother had asked when she’d be back. Emily’s response had left eyebrows raised and Catherine speechless. “That’s totally up to your granddaughter.” Catherine grinned now as she recalled her grandmother’s answer as she dismissively waved a hand. “Pfft! She’s not in charge. You can come by anytime you want. I’m an old woman with little to do. I’d love the company.”
Before she’d left, Emily had hugged her. Again. And it had been just as disconcerting as the last time, in Starbucks. Emily’s hair had smelled the same, like citrus, and her arms around Catherine had been firm and strong. Probably because she’d had a little wine that day, Catherine had let the hug go on a bit longer this time. She’d hugged back. And it had felt…perfect. And she’d wanted to hold on longer. And Goddamnit, that was unfair. She was supposed to be keeping Emily at arms’ length, not pulling her closer.
A gentle tapping on her door pulled Catherine from her musings and she reluctantly called for the person to enter. Jessica came in, wearing her navy blue down coat with a white wool scarf and carrying two cups from Starbucks. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her ears and cheeks were rosy from being outside.
“Good morning. Man, it’s cold.” She handed Catherine a cup. “Latte for my favorite accountant.”
“Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” Catherine said as she took the cup and held it with both hands, warming her fingers. “My radiator has been acting up again. And by ‘acting up,’I mean refusing to do its job and keep me warm.”
“Ugh. Our HVAC is older than me. I’m sorry. I’ll send Bill in to take a look at it.” Jessica paused for a minute, and her expressions was uncertain. “You got a minute?” she asked and indicated one of the empty chairs with her eyes.
Run To You (Puppy Love Romance Book 2) Page 12
