“So I got it on the nose,” he correctly interpreted her gesture. “You don’t want to give me your number because I bother you.”
He wasn’t just cute like George Clooney; he was a flirt, too. Kim could recognize one because she frequently flirted herself, but only when she felt safe… like with Mr. Lindstrom. He couldn’t catch her. George Fowler might.
“Don’t take it personally,” she assured him, ignoring his innuendo… and trying to ignore his closeness. “Everyone bothers me.”
“Is that why you’re up so late?” he asked, switching gears so fast that she was a bit confused.
“Late?”
“Your lights are never on when I get home… except tonight.” His voice deepened when he asked, “Were you waiting up for me?”
The man could turn the flirty charm on and off like a faucet.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “I had a little caffeine tonight.”
“In the class.” He nodded. “So how did it go?”
She released her sigh this time, unable to hold in her concern about Millie’s hopeless optimism. Hopeless optimism? Now there was an oxymoron.
“Sounds like a story here,” George surmised. “Come over and tell me about it. I was about to fix my after-shift snack. I’ll feed you, too.”
She was pretty sure he wouldn’t burn anything… except maybe her if she got too close. “It’s late.”
“You just said you had too much caffeine. Come on. I have herbal tea.” He reached for her hand but got Harry instead and tugged on it.
She had to follow him.
His own walkout basement was decorated as more of a rec room than a family room. A pool table took up half of the space, with a pub table and chairs pulled near it. On the other side, a big screen TV held center court in front of a sectional, leather couch. It was a man’s fantasy room in which he could watch sports and play and scratch himself without having to worry about the disapproval of a wife or girlfriend. From his basement alone, Kim figured George was probably as commitment phobic as she.
Her nerves settled down a bit. She followed him upstairs. The kitchen was more homey and functional than hers. Rich red walls contrasted sharply with the white cabinets and gleaming countertops. Appliances, the built-ins as well as the smaller ones that lobbied for space on the counter, were state of the art.
“Nice,” she said. “You actually use your kitchen?”
“You don’t use yours?” he asked around the refrigerator door while he rummaged inside. Over his broad shoulder, she could see that it was full of food, not just the beer she would have thought prerequisite for a bachelor.
“No, I do. I just thought…”
“That because I’m single and a guy that I would need your bachelor survival course?” He lifted a brow as he set the tea kettle on the stove. Then he set about slicing and dicing the vegetables he’d pulled from the crisper.
Why had he teased her about private lessons if he already knew how to cook? She wasn’t about to ask him that, though. She didn’t want to remind him of the flirting.
“Don’t worry. I won’t poison you with my food,” he promised. “I did all of the cooking while I was married.”
“All of it?” she asked, coloring her voice with skepticism. “Why would any woman divorce a man who’d cooked every meal?”
“Why do you assume she divorced me?” he retorted.
Kim’s lips curved into a begrudging smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t assume.”
He shrugged. “You were right. She did divorce me. Hated my shift. Hated my career,” he said dismissively, as if it hadn’t mattered. But Kim could hear the echo of old pain in his voice even though he hid it well under nonchalance.
“And you did all the cooking?” she asked, still unable to comprehend such a man. Her fiancés had been the type who’d expected to be waited on, not wait on anyone else. The former Mrs. Fowler must have really hated his job.
“Yes,” he maintained. “I was the better cook. My mama taught me well.”
“Don’t let Millie hear you say that,” she cautioned. “The whole reason the class started—”
“Was for her sons,” he finished. “Theresa told me.”
Theresa. He’d already gotten on a first name basis with the traitor, but then Theresa was Hilltop’s welcome wagon. She hadn’t invited Kim to participate, saying that she’d scare away the new residents rather than welcome them. Well, she hadn’t scared George away… even after he met Harry.
He was quick as well as comfortable in the kitchen. In no time, she had a cup of tea and half a Western omelet in front of her where she sat at the breakfast bar. She lifted the fork he’d placed beside her plate and cautiously sank it into the eggs. No puff of smoke rose from them, as they had from Mr. Lindstrom’s when she’d tested his. Her stomach churned at just the memory of that inedible mess. But then it rumbled as the aroma of red, green, and yellow peppers and onions wafted from her plate. She lifted a forkful to her mouth, and the flavors exploded on her tongue. “Mmmm…”
George hadn’t taken a seat; he stood at the counter across from her. Instead of eating his after-shift snack, he watched her, his dark eyes unfathomable. “Good?”
She nodded, then swallowed, so she could speak. “Your mama did teach you well.”
Later, after shoveling in the rest of the omelet, she asked, “Did she also teach you to decorate?” She gestured with the fork she’d licked clean, at the bright crimson kitchen walls.
He grimaced. “No, she did the decorating up here. Got the idea for red from the group she’s in.”
“What group is that?” she asked.
He lifted a picture from the wall between the kitchen and dining room and showed it to Kim. It was a group of women all garbed in purple with bright, red hats atop their heads.
“She’s a member of the Red Hat Society?” Kim asked. No wonder she had such great taste.
He smiled as he looked at the picture, too. “Yeah, they’re a fun bunch.”
“I know. I belong to a chapter here at Hilltop with Millie and Theresa.”
He shook his head. “You’re too young.”
“I just switched from a pink hat to a red one this year,” she said proudly. In fact, Millie and Theresa had presented her with a wide-brimmed, be-feathered one for her fiftieth birthday, when one was able to become an official Red Hat Society member. The hat looked smashing with her little purple suit. Of course, on her birthday, she’d worn a purple hat, used only for birthdays, along with a hot red suit.
“You were only a few years older than me when you taught my gym class in high school,” he said. “All the guys fantasized about Miss O’Malley.”
Her face heated as she remembered overhearing a Miss O’Malley comment or two. Then she almost asked him if he’d had fantasies, but she resisted the temptation. Like she should have resisted joining him for his snack. She slid off the stool and stood. “I really need to head home…”
“And I bet they still do…” he said softly, just under his breath.
Although she chose to ignore his comment, she heard him. And a little thrill raced through her. “Thanks,” she said, a bit breathlessly, as she headed toward his door. “For the omelet… and the tea.”
Not the compliment. She was determined to ignore that. But she had to get away from him, from the temptation that was quickening her pulse and heating her skin. She excused her reaction because it was late. And she was tired.
All she had to do was open his side door, slip out of his garage, and walk a few short steps to her side door. Then she’d be safe. As she pulled open the door, his hand caught the top, holding it shut.
“You forgot something,” he said, his deep voice rumbling close to her ear as his warm breath blew across the sensitive skin of her neck. She fought against the shiver teasing her nerve endings.
Was he going to kiss her? She hardly knew him; she’d have to hurt him if he tried anything. Then he pressed something cold and hard into her hand.
>
“You forgot Harry,” he said, before opening the door for her.
She glanced at him over her shoulder as she stepped into the dimly lit garage. Amusement danced in his dark eyes, tempting her to pull the trigger. He deserved at least one welt for scaring her not once… but twice.
But she wasn’t about to admit that he’d done that… to him… or herself.
“Goodnight,” he called after her, as she fled to the safety of her condo. But it didn’t feel safe… with only a wall between them. He was much too close.
Mom, I hope you’re happy,” Mitchell grumbled as he staggered through the door. “I drove over here with my eyes closed.”
She ignored the anxious little flip of her heart. “Well, the important thing is that you got here in one piece,” she said, pulling him toward the kitchen.
“Too bad there’s a squirrel that won’t be able to say the same—”
“You hit a squirrel!” she exclaimed, slapping his arm. “Mitchell—”
“I’m kidding. It’s too dark yet for squirrels. They’re still sleeping, like I should be.” Instead he was all dressed for work, well, but for his tie. That was undone, like half the buttons on his shirt. But he wore his suit jacket and pants. His hair, however, needed to be brushed and trimmed.
Millie shook her head even as a smile tugged at her lips. He was just so darned cute.
He closed his eyes again and sniffed the air. “Where’s the coffee?”
“You’re making it,” she said, steeling herself to resist the temptation to help. “You’re here to do your homework.”
She hadn’t trusted him to do it alone in his apartment. If he bothered to try, he might have set off the sprinklers in the ceiling of the converted warehouse space.
“Mom, I have to go to work—”
“That’s why you’re here so early,” she reminded him. “So you better get fixing that coffee—”
He whirled away from the kitchen and headed back down the hall.
“Mitchell!” She figured he was heading back for his car, then his bed. But instead he tromped down to the basement.
“I’m not suffering alone,” he griped, stepping on the chip bag which popped and crunched as the chips exploded over the carpet. He slipped on the foil package, grinding the chips into crumbs.
Millie bit her bottom lip. She’d forgotten about that bag. After the class, she’d been too tired to come downstairs and clean again. Obviously Steven had just stepped over it and continued to the bedroom, like Mitchell was now doing.
She chased after him. “Shhh… don’t wake him up. He doesn’t have to be at work—”
Over his shoulder, Mitchell threw her a look, his dark eyes narrowed with disgust. “Until nine. I know.” But then he swung the bedroom door open with such force that it banged against the wall. He hit the switch, flooding the room with light. “Hey, sleepyhead. Time to rise and shine.”
Steven, buried under a pile of blankets, shifted against the pillows, muttering a curse word and, “Go away…”
Chips clinging to the soles of his shoes, Mitchell grabbed one of the four posters and leapt onto the bed, jumping up and down. “Get up, get up, get up!”
Millie opened her mouth to protest Mitchell’s childish antics, but all that emanated from her throat was a laugh.
“Mom!” Steven exclaimed, sounding more irritated with her than his brother, as he sat up and blinked bleary eyes. Puffy dark circles rimmed them.
Guilt nipped at Millie, making her wince. Her oldest wasn’t sleeping well. This wasn’t his bed, and he undoubtedly missed his wife. The guilt quickly evaporated. She was doing the right thing. “Get up,” she echoed Mitchell’s sentiment. “You two have homework to do.”
Steven sank back into the bed and pulled his pillow over his face. But the feathered filling didn’t muffle his curses.
“You’re not too old for me to get out the soap,” she warned him before heading for the stairs. If not for them both having to leave for work soon, she would have taken out the vacuum and sucked up the chip mess before it ground any deeper into the plush, tan carpeting. But she didn’t have time; she’d just have to push the mess out of her mind for now.
“Come on!” she yelled back at the boys. “I’m dying for coffee.”
And a short while later, as she choked on the grounds Mitchell had brewed, she suspected it might kill her. Drinking his coffee had the same effect as licking a cat; she couldn’t get the tickling out of the back of her throat.
Steven, in a ratty old T-shirt and loose, gray sweatpants, stood by the stove, blindly pushing a spatula around a pan.
“Honey, those should be done by now,” Millie remarked, just as the smoke alarm emanated an ear-piercing screech.
“What do I do?” Steven asked, lifting his shoulders.
Millie picked up a dishtowel, swinging it around the air to dispel the thick smoke. Then she pushed Steven aside to flip on the fan above the stove as she carried the pan to the sink. Steam rose as she poured water over the blackened eggs.
She bit the inside of her cheek, quelling her sigh of disappointment. Even though they’d done poorly in the class, she’d chalked that up to inexperience. And she’d set up the early meeting with Mitchell so that she could give them another chance to prove they had the aptitude to learn.
“See, Mom,” Steven said, “it’s hopeless.”
She shook her head. “Honey, you’re half asleep, and this is only your second try. You’ll get it,” she promised him and herself.
“Sure,” Mitchell said, his handsome face earnest as he tried to be supportive. “You’ll get better. You’ll be making eggs for Audrey and Brigitte in no time.”
Steven sighed. “Give it up. How many times do I have to tell you guys—”
Millie left the pan in the sink to turn around and take Steven’s hand. She squeezed it, reassuring him, “You’ll patch this up. Just give her a call.”
He lifted his chin, which was starting to double. “If she wants me back, she’ll call me.”
Darn it, he had his father’s stubborn pride. Okay, maybe it was a bit hers, too. “Steven—”
He pulled his hand from hers. “I’m going to take a shower now. Since I’m up, I’ll go in to work early.”
Mitchell widened his eyes. “Really? Eight-thirty?”
Steven didn’t take the bait, just shoved past him to head downstairs. Finally Millie released her pent-up sigh. “This is so hard…”
Mitchell wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mom. He’ll come around.”
Thankfully Mitchell had inherited her hopeless optimism. She nodded. “Right. We’re not giving up.”
Mitchell lowered his voice. “No, but he has.”
That was what she was afraid of, that and the mess the boys had left in the kitchen. She glanced around at the coffee grounds and eggshells and egg white strewn around the countertop. Mitchell squeezed her shoulders again. “Wish I could stay to help clean up,” he said, insincerely, “but I have that early meeting. Can’t miss it—” He was already halfway to the door.
“Mitchell!”
“Really, Steven needs the homework more than me. Let him clean up.”
But Millie had already left the crumbs downstairs. She couldn’t leave the mess in the kitchen, too, and not be able to concentrate on Kim’s class. She glanced at her watch. Kim’s class was due to start in thirty minutes.
She sighed and reached for the faucet and wondered where she could sign up for that how-not-to-mother-your-children-for-the-rest-of-your-life class.
Chapter Nine
“Marrying a man is like buying something you’ve been admiring for a long time in a shop window. You may love it when you get it home, but it doesn’t always go with everything else in the house.”
—Jean Kerr
Theresa walked into the kitchen and dropped her house keys on the counter. For once her muscles weren’t aching and protesting her every movement as they usually did following one of Kim’s aerobics
classes. Kim had been off her game today.
She’d been late… and sleepy. And Millie, who usually vigorously followed every routine with her innate passion and dedication, had been distracted and out of sync. The bachelor survival course hadn’t gone that late the night before, not late enough for them to be so tired.
Then there’d been the gossip that Theresa had overheard from the back of the class. Between pants for breath, probably more from excitement than exertion, Mrs. Ryers had spread rumors about Millie walking all wet out of Charles’s bushes and Kim having clandestine rendezvous, while skimpily dressed, with strange men on her patio in the wee hours.
Usually only half of what the old busybody said was ever true, but it was still more than Theresa knew. She sniffed back a little disappointment. These were her closest friends. She wanted to know what was going on with them, but they’d left the community center before Theresa could head them off at the pass. Oh, no, she’d been inadvertently absorbing the jargon from Wally’s western marathons. She’d have to make sure he turned the volume down, or got one of those earplug things so she couldn’t hear them at all. Because it looked like all she would have for company for the rest of the day was Wally and his ever-running TV.
After the class, Kim had dashed off as if training for a marathon, which she very well could be. And Millie had been on her usual mission of marriage repair for her son. They had both passed on their standing after-class coffee/herbal tea date, ditching Theresa, leaving her alone. She sniffed again.
The paper rustled and Wally peered blearily over the top of the crumpled page. “You’re home early.”
“You’re up,” she said, letting him hear her surprise.
“Barely,” he admitted. “You didn’t leave a pot of coffee going.”
Like she usually did. Since she’d switched back to caffeinated, it was no wonder he looked like an alcoholic suffering withdrawal. His hair was standing on end and pillow creases had left haggard lines in his face. Nothing was left of the vital. young man she’d married so long ago.
She turned away from him and glanced over to the counter where the black and stainless steel coffeemaker sat empty. “Why didn’t you make some?”
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