Just One Night

by Nancy Warren

  For some reason he was much cheerier than when he’d left hours earlier, and the feeling was oddly contagious.

  “How come you came back in such a good mood? You were a complete grump when you left.”

  “When you kicked me out of my own home, you mean.” He reached down and grabbed the white plastic grocery sack off the floor and started on his halting way to the kitchen. “I had an epiphany this afternoon.”

  “An epiphany? Don’t tell me. You realized how lucky you are to have Seattle’s finest Realtor at your beck and call?”

  He turned to glance at her over his shoulder. “I thought becking and calling were out, as per our professional relationship.”

  She had to bite back an answering smile. He was just so easy to be with, so easy to flirt with, damn it. “So you were listening.”

  “Oh, I heard you all right. I just don’t happen to agree with you. I think you can mix business and pleasure and make both more interesting. But that’s me.”

  “Have you ever—” she began and then could have bitten her tongue. What was she thinking?

  Having reached the kitchen he put down the sack and turned on the kitchen faucet to wash his hands. “Have I ever had a relationship with a work colleague? Sure. Haven’t you?”

  The stab of—what? Surely not jealousy—surprised her. It wasn’t any of her business who he got involved with.

  “No. Never.”

  He turned off the tap and dried his hands. Nice hands, she noted. Long-fingered and strong.

  “How about a client? Have you ever been involved with a client?”

  “Romantically?”

  Even though his face was serious, his eyes laughed at her. “Yeah, romantically.”

  Apart from him? “No. I told you. I set rules for myself.”

  “Didn’t you ever hear that nice old saying about rules being meant to be broken?”

  “I bet you’ve broken a few rules in your time.”

  He chuckled. “One or two.” He reached for the bottom of a set of three drawers and drew out an apron with the ease of somebody who’s done it frequently. It was green cotton with sprigs of yellow flowers; obviously one of his grandmother’s. When he popped the bib over his head and tied the string around his waist without any worry about whether he looked ridiculous or not, her heart melted a little.

  He didn’t look a bit ridiculous. He looked comfortable in his skin and his grandmother’s apron which made her think he was also comfortable with his memories of her. Nice.

  She removed her suit jacket, hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and then rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse. “What can I do?”

  He was taking items out of the bag. He placed a bottle of wine on the counter. “Can you open the wine?”

  “Sure.”

  He’d bought wine. She wondered if this impromptu dinner date was actually planned. And whether she minded.

  She opened the wine—a Washington pinot noir—and poured it into two glasses she found in the cupboard he gestured to.

  “What else?”

  “Want to sous-chef?”

  “Why not?”

  He reached for the drawer and took out a second apron. This one was cream sprigged with pink roses. He shook it out and then held the top strap for her, waiting until she stepped closer before looping it over her head. He turned her around, putting his hands on her hips in a gesture that was probably cheflike, but felt ridiculously intimate.

  She was deeply aware of his hands moving behind her as he straightened the straps. “My grandmother was a little more stout than you,” he said, and then brought his arms around her middle, doubling the straps around her waist. She felt him so close to her, felt his breath on her neck as he fastened the ties at her back. She wanted badly to lean against him, let the attraction she felt for him take them wherever it led.

  “All done,” he said, stepping away and breaking the spell.

  “Thanks.”

  He passed her the asparagus and potatoes and, as she snapped the ends off the former and scrubbed the latter, he prepared a sauce for the salmon.

  They worked companionably, side by side in the kitchen. “I bought a decent barbecue last time I was here. It’s about the only modern thing in the place. I’ll grill the salmon.”

  “Where did you learn to cook?” she asked.

  “From my grandmother. Long before it became trendy she thought every man should be able to cook. The first time she saw Jamie Oliver on TV she said to me, ‘There you are, Rob. I told you so. Men who cook make women swoon.’”

  Hailey laughed. “Did she really say swoon?”

  “Absolutely. I swear she actually did swoon when he started that program to get healthier lunches in schools. She was a former English teacher, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’d have liked her. I think she’d have liked you, too.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He reminded her a bit of one of those sexy celebrity chefs. Casual, assured, not bothering to measure things very precisely, but fully in control. She’d never seen a man in a flowered apron look so handsome.

  “Do you cook much?” she asked.

  “I don’t cook when I’m away, and when I’m in New York I mostly eat out. With so many good restaurants, you could eat out every night and never get bored. I do most of my cooking here. In this kitchen.”

  He glanced around. “I’m glad you stayed. It’s weird being here without her, you know?”

  “I can imagine.”

  To lighten the atmosphere she said, “I’ll set the table.”

  He looked at her as though she were crazy. “It’s already set.”

  “The table’s staged. You can’t eat off this stuff or mess up the placemats and napkins. Julia would kill us both.”

  “My grandmother would not approve of staging,” he said.

  “If your grandmother was as smart as you make her out to be she’d love anything that got her more money for her house.”

  She knew she had him when he shook his head. “Damn, she really would have liked you.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?” Stupid question, but sometimes she found the dumbest question was the right one.

  His mouth twisted. “I keep thinking I’ll hear her voice. She used to phone me sometimes but the biggest thrill was when she emailed me the first time.” He chuckled at the memory. “She must have been eighty-two. She bought a computer and hired a kid to teach her how to use it. She wanted to surprise me. And hell, did she ever. I was checking my email in Istanbul and there’s a message from her.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know. Funny thing is she always wrote emails as though they were formal letters. You know, ‘Dearest Robert, I hope this finds you well.’ That kind of thing. I got such a kick out of them.” It would be a long time before he stopped expecting her to call him or, to his intense delight, email him. He caught himself before he went on. “Anyhow, she was a cool lady. And she had no time for men who were useless around the house. Therefore, I cook.”

  * * *

  AS SHE’D SUSPECTED, dinner was perfectly cooked. Simple and delicious.

  The placemats were faded with age and the dishes clearly had been frequently used, in contrast to the designer linens and gleaming Denby china Julia had provided.

  Once he’d lit a couple of candles, the atmosphere was cozy, romantic even, though she pushed the word out of her mind the second she thought it.

  When she bit into the salmon she almost moaned with pleasure. “This is fantastic.”

  “So? Was my grandmother right? Am I the next Jamie Oliver?”

  “Jamie Oliver doesn’t wear flowered aprons.”

  He shrugged. “He has his style. I have mine.”

  Privately, she liked Rob’s style. Which was a problem.

  She did not want to have romantic feelings for Rob.

  Which immediately reminded that she was not here for pleasure, in spite of the mouthwatering meal and good wine, b
ut for business.

  “I think the people who came today really liked the house.”

  He speared a potato. “Did they?”

  “Yes. A nice family relocating from Connecticut.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You have a problem with Easterners?”

  He chewed his potato. Swallowed. “No. Not at all.”

  “Good. The company transferring them is putting them up for three days in a hotel and in that time they hope to make a decision. They’d want a fairly quick closing date so they can move their family in and he can start his new job.”

  “How quick are we talking?”

  “It’s negotiable, of course, but I think a quick closing would be a big selling feature. They want their kids settled in before the school year is too advanced.”

  “Hmm. What happened to that other couple? The ones who interrupted my sleep?”

  “The MacDonalds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They didn’t like the angry presence in the house.”

  He laid down his knife and fork and drilled her with his gaze. “My grandmother would never haunt anyone. And she was never negative.”

  She sent him a thin smile. “They were talking about you.”

  “Weenies. The house wasn’t right for them.”

  In fact she knew it was but what was the point of arguing? She hoped the Fergusons, Ted and Sue, and their three kids aged eight to thirteen might soon call Bellamy House home. Not only was she anxious to close a sale, but she was beginning to think that the less time she spent with Rob the better.

  “I expect to hear from them tomorrow. They may want to view the property a second time. I hope you can accommodate them.”

  “Kicking me out again?”

  “Believe me, as soon as the deal closes, you will be left in peace.”

  “Are you kidding me? I have to figure out what to do with all this stuff.” He gestured vaguely around the kitchen, which she knew meant the things in drawers and cupboards that the stagers hadn’t removed. Not to mention all the furniture and items currently in storage.

  “You know, there are charities that could make good use of her things. And the valuable or sentimental pieces you could put into storage until you decide what you want to keep. I could put you in touch with the right people.”

  He nodded.

  “Well,” she said, “I hate to eat and run but I’ve got some paperwork I’d like to do tonight. I’ll let you know when I hear back from the Fergusons’ Realtor.”

  “You do that.”

  He got to his feet and, using the cane, followed her to the front door.

  She turned to bid him goodbye and found him closer than she’d have dreamed possible. He could really move with that cane.

  “Thank you again—”

  “About that kissing thing,” he interrupted. Were they back to that again?

  “What about the kissing thing?” she asked, half irritated, half intrigued.

  “I want to give you some more information.”

  “More information? About kissing?”

  “Not exactly. More about other things.” He dropped his gaze to the cane. “I want you to know, in case you’re wondering, that the bullet damaged some muscle and nicked a bone. Nothing that won’t heal. Everything else is in perfect working order.” He raised his gaze to hers. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.” Mostly because it had been perfectly obvious from their kissing that everything was working fine. As he must know.

  “And about that kissing thing—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Would you forget about the kissing thing?”

  She felt his nearness, his warmth, the stirrings of desire.

  “No. Some things are unforgettable.”

  A tiny sound came out of her throat, unbidden, primal. Their gazes connected and it was like a match to dry tinder.

  Her heart sped up, her skin began to tingle.

  He moved closer; their mouths were in easy reach. With no order from any thinking part of her brain, her lips parted.

  He moved closer. “I want to tell you that since you’re the one with the rules I’m going to leave the next move to you.”

  While she stood there astonished, he leaned past her to open the door. “Good night.”

  9

  ROB WAS BEGINNING to find his forced sabbatical much more interesting than he’d ever anticipated, he thought, as he lugged his camera bag awkwardly down the old wooden steps to the unfinished basement. The smell of the lower floor was as familiar to him as a signature perfume on a woman. It smelled like dust and aging cement and years of layered memory. Down here he’d built his first model airplane with newspaper spread out to catch the glue drips though somehow they always ended up on him anyway. He supposed he’d had a man cave back before the term even existed. A boy cave in truth. A lumpy old couch still crouched in the corner. He’d hunched on it on rainy Saturday afternoons to read comic books. Later he’d snuck a girl or two down here for some heavy petting. And in between all of that his grandmother had allowed him to turn an old bathroom into a darkroom.

  Now that his home had become a decorator’s showplace everywhere but down here, he’d begun using the old oak desk in the corner. He fired up his computer and downloaded today’s photos.

  He began looking through his personal photo library, hunting for the similarities he’d detected between these everyday scenes in the town he called home and the many scenes of daily life he’d witnessed in places far, far from home.

  He’d read somewhere that the different racial characteristics had developed around ten thousand years ago. Before that man had been one small tribe in Africa. He’d begun to realize what human DNA demonstrated—we are more similar than we are different.

  Over the next couple of weeks he worked on his idea. It gave shape to his days, a purpose to his idleness. He’d never in all his career had time like this to devote to a larger project. He’d become so accustomed to snatching a story in process, snapping photos that were more about capturing today’s action than art. Now he had the time and leisure to do both. And to tell a story that wouldn’t be old news in a few weeks but was timeless.

  He’d caught up with a few of his old friends, and it was strange to see them settled, some with families.

  “Still footloose and fancy-free, huh?” Mike Lazenby asked him as they hung out at Mike’s place one Saturday afternoon while his wife shopped. The guy was pacing the living room, a squirming, fussy infant draped over his shoulder. A line of spit-up ran down his back like seagull poop. But there was no jealousy in his tone. While Mike had been a legendary womanizer and rabble-rouser back in the day, Rob sensed deep contentment in his old friend.

  “Yep.”

  Wouldn’t be his choice, but it was nice to see Mike happy.

  He saw Hailey a few times whenever she dropped in to make sure the place was perfect before she booted him out for her showings. He took perverse pride in always being there, in making her boot him out. It was kind of a kick, as was the buzz of electricity between them every time they saw each other.

  He was healing nicely. He was well rested, well fed and in far too frequent company with the sexiest Realtor he’d ever seen. He wondered when they were going to close the deal between each other.

  From how she looked at him from time to time, he knew, whether she said so or not, that she was thinking the same thing.

  She’d been pretty pissed with him when he’d told the Fergusons—truthfully—that raccoons nested in the trees in his yard. He used to have one that climbed right up to his window where he’d leave food out for it. Okay, maybe he’d overheard the little girl say she was scared of raccoons but he was certain that wasn’t the only reason they’d chosen another home. He wasn’t disappointed to lose out on a fast sale that would have left him homeless as well as jobless.

  Since she’d found them another home and closed the deal, she’d gotten over that. Still, he had to be careful or firing her wouldn’t
be an issue. She’d quit.

  It was a rainy Thursday and once again he was pushed out of his own home.

  “Where are you going in this rain with a camera?” she asked him.

  “I have a date with a troll,” he told her.

  She raised her brows but she had to know he meant Fremont’s very own troll, the sculpture under the Aurora Bridge, which he was going to photograph. He had no idea what he was going to do, but was confident that creativity, luck and timing would be on his side.

  Or else he’d go get a coffee at Beananza and read the paper.

  “Have fun with your troll.”

  “I’d rather have fun with you. You thought anymore about that kissing thing?”

  The door shut with a decided bang behind him. He chuckled. Trolls could turn up anywhere.

  He got lucky. Some tourists had come to see the troll and after he took a few snaps of them with their camera, he asked if he could take a few with his. One day they might be published, he told them, though it would probably be on his website. If he ever got one started.

  Then the Adopt-a-Troll group came by to clean up litter. He snapped a few more shots. And finally he photographed the gloomy guy all alone beneath the cavernous bridge.

  He still had time to stop for a coffee before heading home.

  * * *

  HAILEY HADN’T BOTHERED to tell Rob that the family coming to view the place today were cousins of Julia’s. It wasn’t any of his business. Paige and Jay were expecting their first child. Likely the house was out of their price range but even if it was they might tell friends about the place. Hal Wilson at work was about to list a very nice town house that would suit Paige and Jay and a little one perfectly.

  Naturally, when the doorbell rang there were more than two people standing there. Paige and Jay, Julia, Paige’s sister Noreen and Julia’s mother Gloria were already talking a mile a minute as she opened the door.

  “Congratulations on the listing, honey,” Gloria said, giving her a huge hug. Gloria was an older, heavier version of Julia. Dramatic, outspoken and deeply maternal.

  “Thanks. Julia’s staging really makes the house shine.”

  “I couldn’t be more proud of you two.” Hailey knew it was true and once more felt very fortunate to be considered part of this loving family.