by Opal Carew
“Hey, I do just fine on my own. I can find another place to stay. I don’t need your charity.” She stood up, not sure if she was too proud or angry or humiliated.
Or hurt beyond words.
She’d thought… Oh what did it matter what she’d thought? This was just like every other time. Every other place.
God, how could she have let herself think—hope—
“Jolie, wait.” Todd touched her arm. “Please. Sit. That didn’t come out right.”
Her wobbly knees weren’t giving her much choice. Nor was the fact that she could barely breathe with the pain in her chest, so she sank into the chair, her back ramrod. “What?”
“I like being around you and that’s not something I’ve felt in a very long time. Two years to be exact. I haven’t liked being around anyone, including my brother, yet here you are, and I find myself glad to have a chance to chat, glad to have you here to share my meals. I like having someone else in the house with me.” His hand flexed on her arm and she stared at it. Her skin knew it was there, but Brain was just now processing that information. “Plus, you’re an amazing cook. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay. Keep me company. And make all the curlicues you want. Please?”
She was such a sucker for please. Not to mention, being needed. By him.
“Well, put like that, I guess I have to.”
“Thank you.”
There went that smile again, melting her composure like candle wax that had had a flame on it for too long. She was even more of a sucker for thank you.
“And the kids thank you,” he said.
She shook her head. “No way. You don’t get to bring the kids into this. I’d finish the cookies and do your picnic even without the begging.”
“I know you would. And that’s why I like you so much, Jolie Gardener.” Then he gave her a little arm rub, à la “Way to go, Sport.”
That’d be her, Good Sport Jolie.
***
“So,” Todd said when they were once more dropping cookie dough dollops onto trays, “how’d you learn to cook if you moved around a lot?”
Now there was a nice way of putting it. Moved around a lot. Made her sound like an Army brat instead of a homeless one.
“I lived with the Carlesons for an entire school year and Mrs. Carleson was a stay-at-home mom.” Jolie pulled up another baking sheet. “I think she just really liked trying to make things nice for those of us who didn’t have such a great lot in life. There were three of us staying with them in addition to her four kids. Her husband traveled on business a lot. I think he was some big-wig in a computer company. Anyway, she’d always have freshly-baked cookies or brownies for us when we got home from school.”
Todd started on his second tray. “That must have been nice. I loved when my mom made brownies.”
Okay, she’d add brownies to her list of To-Dos.
“It was.” She opened the top oven for her two trays then the bottom one for Todd’s. “One rainy weekend, her husband was away, her kids were off on some church outing, and the three of us were there with her. One of the kids asked if she could teach her to bake and we all jumped on the bandwagon.”
Actually, the “her” had been her. So desperate for something—anything—normal in her life. Toll House cookies had fit the bill.
“She sounds like a nice woman.” Todd handed her the second tray and she set the oven timer.
“She was. Still is, I guess.”
“So what happened? Why couldn’t you stay there longer?”
The very same question she’d asked herself all those years ago. “Her husband got transferred so we did, too.” She shrugged as if it weren’t a big deal, but yeah, it’d been a big deal. Big. Huge. She’d cried herself into dehydration the day she’d found out.
“Do you ever keep in touch with the people you met?”
“No.” She brushed some cookie dough crumbs from the edge of the counter into her palm. “What’s the point? We never knew how long we had at a house, how long we wanted to stay or were wanted to stay, so what was the point of getting attached?”
“Well, Mrs. Carleson sure knew how to make a great cookie.”
“Yeah, she did. And it actually helped me because if I could convince my other foster moms to buy the ingredients, I’d make cookies for the family. Once that happened, I was usually a big hit.”
Todd stopped dolloping and pointed his scoop at her. “Is that why you became a chef?”
“No. I became a chef because I have a knack for it. Because it’s a job and it pays decently and—”
...
Oh crud. Was he— Could he be onto something?
…
Oh man. She’d picked her career to make people like her.
Obviously that was why she baked for her foster families. If she could make the world’s best cookies, they’d want her to stay.
And now her adult life was mimicking her childhood, going from house to house, cooking for people and staying with them until their lives changed, while hers just kept repeating itself.
She never saw this?
Apparently not and now she felt like she’d just been clobbered by the tallest redwood tree in the Pacific Northwest.
And if a giant redwood tree hypothetically fell on you and you didn’t see it coming, could you still make a sound?
Again, apparently not, because there was nothing—not even air—able to get past the lump in her throat.
Todd dropped his cookie scoop and rushed around the island, taking her by the shoulders. “Jolie? Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
She nodded, though words were beyond her.
He backed her up to a chair and guided her into it.
She knew what was going on, but for some reason it didn’t feel like it was happening to her. It was as if she were watching herself over her own shoulder, detached from her very own sucker-punch of realization.
Todd thrust a glass of water into her hands. She knew she was supposed to do something with it, but for the life of her, she didn’t have a clue.
He guided the glass and her hands to her mouth. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
If he said so.
The cool water passed her lips and suddenly she was back in her body and she gasped at the sharp stab in her stomach that she recognized immediately.
Pure, unadulterated pain.
But gasping in a mouthful of water had the immediate effect of dousing the pain in hacking coughs. Todd smacked her on the back and even though it wasn’t the touch she’d like from him, his body contacting with hers was enough to stem the pain and focus her on the here and now.
Here and now. Not done and gone. Get over it and yourself, Jols. Move on.
Right. That was all in her past and if she chose a career because of her needs as a child then it was up to her to make certain she became a success at it.
Jolie waved him away and stopped coughing. Her throat was a little raw from the water going down the wrong pipe, but she was okay. Back in control. Knowing where she was going, and what she was doing in her life.
She was.
Really.
“Thanks.” She took another sip of water to ease the soreness in her throat.
Todd’s eyes scanned her face. “Jolie—”
She shook her head and did the “talk to the hand” thing.
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Thank goodness the man could take a hint.
The timer chose that moment to ding and it was a good choice.
“We better get back to our schedule,” Todd said.
Honestly, she could kiss the man for the normalcy.
Among other reasons.
***
From the shadows of his patio, the night sounds whispering around the soft ripples of the pond fountain, Todd watched through the kitchen window as Jolie puttered around his kitchen once the baking was completed. She hadn’t wanted his help for the cleanup and, while he felt like a heel for leaving her the mess, he also un
derstood her need for space.
That’d been a tough revelation for her. He hadn’t realized at the time what he was saying, what effect it would have on her, that her career choice might be a subconscious fulfillment of a basic principal of life, until he’d seen that look on her face.
He couldn’t imagine what her childhood had been like for her. Years of her life. Formative years.
He rubbed the side of his jaw, catching remnants of cookie dough in the stubble there. Brown sugar, cinnamon, apples… The little comforts of home. Things he’d always had growing up and had missed since Trista’s death.
But Jolie, she’d been through it her entire life. He’d had a great childhood, a wonderful marriage and, though he missed Trista like hell, he’d never doubted she’d loved him.
He’d also never anticipated that their happiness would suddenly be torn away.
Unlike Jolie, he hadn’t expected the worst. Maybe that was why it had hit so hard and blindsided him.
But look at her. Dancing again to some song he couldn’t hear—albeit less exuberantly than the Shania he’d encountered earlier—her lips mouthing the words, expressions flitting across her face, she was back to her normal self.
But where did that “normal self” hold the pain so no one could see? And how had she, as a child, found the wherewithal to construct such walls? How had she maintained the will to live, to go on, with no one? To make something of herself and fulfill her dreams?
He didn’t have no one. He had Mike and Barbara. The people he employed. Friends who still called even after two years of silence from him.
Who did she have?
She snuck a cookie off the cooling rack, her shoulders hunched as if waiting to be condemned for that action. The fact that she felt she had to sneak it broke his heart. What was it like to not feel comfortable helping yourself to a cookie? One she’d slaved over for two days?
Hers was a strength he’d never seen before. Piercing eyes, a determined set to her mouth, a sharp jaw that rounded in softness when she smiled, Jolie was a hell of a lot stronger than she gave herself credit for.
And that strength inspired him.
She inspired him.
***
Whoever said introspection was good for the soul never had a past they wanted to run away from.
And, apparently, she wasn’t the only one. Todd had made darned sure to stay in that west wing until way past a reasonable dinnertime. Which made the roast chicken go cold, so Jolie chopped it up, tossed it with some honey-mustard-flavored mayo, red grapes, and almonds, put it on a bed of endive on a batard, added a tomato rose and parsley garnish to the side, and left him a note on the counter. Past nine o’clock, she called it a night and headed up to bed, Mr. Griff’s book in hand.
Witnessing Miss Rebecca Featherington’s parasol dilemma (her parasol, his body part, their collision) was much more appealing than delving into the dark closets of her own mind.
Just as she was about to turn off the light, Todd ascended the staircase. And sure enough, her nerves got all jumpy and she barely moved in her bed so she could listen.
Why? God only knew. Maybe Miss Rebecca Featherington’s Victorian ideals had rubbed off on her. Maybe she should be clutching her very lacy, very starched white nightrail to her neck so the wicked lord wouldn’t take advantage of her innocence.
And maybe she should abandon Miss Rebecca Featherington and her parasol to over-acting purgatory.
When Todd’s footsteps reached the top of the stairs, a quandary struck. Should she call out “goodnight”? Go to her door to say it? Ignore him and pretend she was asleep? With the light on? Uh oh. What if he came in to turn it off?
Yeah, right. He probably wanted to avoid her as much as she wanted to—
“Jolie? Are you awake?” he asked outside her door.
“Um, yes?”
The doorknob clicked but didn’t open.
“Thanks. For the sandwich.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It was good.”
“Um… okay?”
With a heavy breath, a little plunk thudded on the other side of the door like his head was resting there. “About this afternoon… “
Oh, God. She couldn’t re-do this. She simply couldn’t.
His knuckles rapped the door. He, apparently, could. “Do we have to talk through this?”
That low, husky question was not good for her equilibrium. “I’m… um… not really dressed.” She couldn’t stifle the groan once the words were out. Good Lord. She used to be able to think straight. Used to be able keep her wits about her, but that capability had flown the coop ever since she set eyes on one unbelievably sexy naked man in his kitchen.
Who now stood outside her bedroom door chuckling at her supposed state of undress. “Well, I guess turnabout is fair play. I just wanted to say thanks for staying.”
“You’re welcome.” He was thanking her?
Todd cleared his throat and the doorknob clicked again, but still didn’t open. “Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
She flipped off the light, scrunched down beneath the eight-bazillion count sheets, and smiled herself into Slumber Land.
So this was what it was like to feel wanted.
Chapter Eighteen
Picnic day arrived after a pretty decent, non-emotion-laden second baking day full of snappy tunes, good vibes, and totally surface-level conversation. Todd still did his disappearing act up to the west wing in the evening, but that was okay. All the cookies had been baked, the mess cleaned up, and her gut hadn’t taken any more rapier jabs. Things were looking up.
“You ready?” Todd was looking rather sporty in his navy shorts and red-with-a-gray stripe rugby. White running shoes and sharp sunglasses completed the ensemble.
Jolie elected to go with a yellow sundress (darn, no matching kicky flats), tan sandals, and her own sun-reflective gear. “I’m ready and so is breakfast.”
“Thanks. Mike will be here any minute to help with the cookies.”
They threw back banana chocolate chip pancakes—he did say anything to do with chocolate chips was fine with him—rinsed the dishes and loaded the cookies.
Once Melanie’s passenger seat had the last bag it could hold, Jolie flipped her hair over her shoulder as she stood, a few stragglers adhering to her neck from the slight sheen (she did not sweat) the exertion left on her skin. “We are definitely going to need Mike’s car. It’s going to be pure torture driving with eau de chocolate chip wafting around me.”
“I know what you mean.” Todd closed Mel’s door. “I feel like I should bring a glass of milk, but there probably wouldn’t be any cookies left by the time I got there. Here. Let me.”
She was swiping at those darn wayward hairs when Todd’s finger whispered over her cheek, capturing the strands and tucking them behind her ear.
Such an innocent gesture, really. Nothing to it, right?
Then why did a line of fire shoot straight from her cheek back to the ear he touched—and was still touching?
His finger was just barely grazing, hovering there, but she could feel his warmth like a flambé torch. And it was suddenly very quiet around them, as if the birds took an intermission break. No one drove down his street, there was absolutely no wind to rustle, not a single leaf or errant newspaper, and she was hopeless to do anything but stare up into his mesmerizing green eyes and hold her breath.
He seemed to be into not breathing, too.
Then, softly, almost like a feather, his fingertips glided behind her ear and down her nape, chills and goose bumps following along, and her breathing jump-started into shallow little half-breaths doing the salsa.
Todd broke eye contact and his gaze followed the path of his hand. His golden lashes flickered as his thumb brushed her cheek and lightly stroked her bottom lip.
She was helpless to do anything but watch him and try to keep air going into her lungs.
He didn’t have laughing eyes anymore or a smiling tilt to hi
s mouth. It was as if he were trying to figure out exactly who she was and what she was doing so close to him.
She’d like to know that herself.
His hand slid beneath her hair, his palm scorching the back of her neck, and she was suddenly very hot. Dry-mouthed.
She moistened her lips and he sucked in a breath.
His piercing gaze were back and she couldn’t look away.
His eyes got closer.
Todd got closer.
And suddenly it was his lips that had gotten closer, and a tide of hot burning need swept over her as his mouth covered hers. Someone groaned and she wasn’t sure who.
Todd slid his other hand beneath her hair, cupping her face, and leaned her back against the sun-warmed metal of the car, no room for even air between them. Her arms found their way around that rock-solid abdomen and she was hanging on for dear life, plastered up against that chest she’d seen glistening in sweat, dripping from the pool, and covered in body-hugging clothing, and her knees were threatening a walk-out.
She clasped his back to keep from going boneless and he growled. That was definitely him and she was definitely doing something right to get that reaction. Her heart jumped and she couldn’t help herself, she had to trace the sinewy muscles of his back with the tips of her fingers.
Todd pulled her tighter to him, though how that was even possible she didn’t know, but, honest-to-God there was nothing so thrilling as a lean, muscled man using his power for good.
And this was so good.
But wrong.
So wrong.
How could he do this?
How could she do this?
As his tongue did a sexy, bone-melting, swirly dance on her lips—and traitors that they were, they opened to let him in—Brain picked that moment to get a conscience.
What are you doing, Jolie? asked Brain.
Well, duh. Kissing the hunky guy?
Why?
Because he’s kissing me? Was Brain even in her body? How could it not know this?
