“Do you care what she thinks?”
“Actually, I do, as crazy as that is. My friend, Jerika, has tried many times over the years to convince me Martha is rude just to be rude, but I’ve always hoped one day she’d extend some joy my way. Now I think that’s a fruitless dream.”
“Some people have a hard time showing affection.”
“She’s good with Daxton, though. Couldn’t ask for anything better.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I assumed that you and Darcy…you know.”
“Thank you, but give me some credit. I can think with more than my body parts.” He smiled. “Even if I didn’t prove it earlier, so to speak.”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you couldn’t.”
“You weren’t?”
“I guess so.” Anything further she wished to say on the subject ended when Daxton bustled toward the porch. His face was now red. Jessa trailed close behind, her tongue lopping out of her mouth.
“I’m thirsty.” Daxton rubbed his arm across his forehead.
“Want some tea? Lemonade?” Grace offered.
“Lemonade.” He was attempting to catch his breath.
“I’ll grab it.” She got up, stepped inside of the house, and listened by the door as Gunnar and Daxton talked about baseball, friends and school. In the kitchen, she poured a tall glass for Daxton, checked on dinner and went back out.
Daxton drank half the glass in one gulp. “Hey mom, what are we eating for dinner?’
“Baked spaghetti,” she answered. “It’ll be ready soon so go on in and get washed up.”
Daxton rushed up the steps and stopped at the door. “You staying, Gunnar?”
“If you’re mom says it’s okay.” Gunnar glanced at Grace.
“I’d like for him to,” she answered.
“Then yes, I’m staying. I wouldn’t miss out on your mom’s cooking.” Gunnar smiled.
“Awesome!” Daxton opened the door.
“Don’t—” the screen door slammed behind Daxton, “slam the door.” She laughed.
“Great kid.” Gunnar swirled his melting ice in his glass.
“Yes, he is. And you’re going to give me a big head.”
“Really? How’s that?”
“Telling my kid that you like my cooking.” She shook her head. “It’s not that great.”
“I keep coming back, don’t I?”
“Do you have a choice?” She didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm. “You can only eat so many cheeseburgers at the diner.”
“I’ve noticed you don’t give yourself enough credit.” He stretched his long legs and hooked his boots at the ankles.
“It’s only spaghetti.”
“And that’s like filet mignon for this fellow.”
Grace swallowed, remembering the conversation she shared with Jerika.
He stood. “I better go get washed up too.” He started for the steps.
“Okay, see you in twenty?” She stood, grabbed the glasses. “Don’t want it to get cold.”
“No worries. I’ll be right back.”
****
Jessa followed Gunnar back to the greenhouse and he started through the back door when he looked back at the sad-eyed dog.
“Go on back home, girl.” He waved a hand through the air.
She stood, staring.
He was definitely becoming too soft. “Okay. I’ll let you come in if you don’t tell anyone.”
Gunnar led the way up the stairs and into his room where he poured the dog a bowl of water, pulled off his shirt and took a country-boy’s bath at the sink. Picking out a clean T-shirt, he then spotted the new button down he’d recently bought still folded in the drawer. Grabbing the shirt, he dragged it on, catching Jessa staring. “Hey, a man can dress up once in a while without a reason.” Of course, he had a good reason. He wanted to look good for Grace.
He turned out the light, called Jessa to follow, and together they made their way back to the farmhouse. He knocked on the back door and heard Grace’s voice through the open window, “Come on in.”
“You stay here.” Gunnar told the dog as he pulled open the door and was met by the smell of good cooking. Grace stood at the counter, her hair pulled up into a high bun with a few tendrils falling around her flushed cheeks as she cut up vegetables. She set the knife down and popped a slice of cucumber into her mouth. “I’m having a beer. Want one?”
“Sounds great.”
She grabbed a long neck from the refrigerator and handed it to him. He took it, popping the lid. “I haven’t had a beer since I’ve come back to the States,” he admitted.
“Maybe you’d like something stronger than a beer?” She wagged her brows.
“You have whiskey?”
“Hidden behind all of the cans in the pantry. I call it my rainy day stash. Does that mean you need a shot?”
He shook his head. “No. I better not.” He leaned against the counter and took in the foil covered casserole dish on the stove. “Smells fantastic.”
“It just came out of the oven a few minutes ago.”
He glanced around the space, liking how neat and organized everything was. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the table along with three plates. His chest tightened. He wasn’t sure why he was affected by seeing the table set including him, but it did…deep down inside of his gut. “Where’s Daxton?”
“Playing until dinner.” She took out another cutting board and grater, placing them on the island. Then she went to the refrigerator and got out a block of cheddar cheese. She tore the wrapper off the cheese and began running it down the grater with nice fluid motions and his mind raced back to how her fingers had fit nicely around him. Her hands were slender and her nails were short. He’d think someone who was in the garden all of the time would have dirty, broken nails, but they were neat.
“Anything I can do?” He didn’t want to stand there staring and remembering how good he’d felt buried inside of her.
“How about putting the casserole dish on the table? There’s a hot plate right here.” She jutted her chin in the direction beside the stove.
“Sure. I can’t mess that up.” He placed his bottle next to her beer and did as she requested.
“You can remove the foil too, if you’d like.”
When he pulled back the cover, he got a whiff of savory sauce and cheese. His mouth salivated and his stomach growled, realizing how hungry he was. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.”
“The sauce is homemade,” she bragged.
“Anything else you need?”
“Do you cook?” One thin brow lifted.
“If you call Ramen Noodles cooking.”
“Then you know how to boil water.” She smiled.
“Not really. I use the microwave.”
She giggled. “Have you ever cooked a real meal?”
“A few times, back when I was still living at home. Been a long time though.” He scratched his jaw. “Believe it or not, I could make a killer Stromboli back in the day.”
She didn’t seem convinced. “Really?”
“Really.” He took a quick drink of beer, then placed it on the counter.
“You say back in the day as if that was decades ago. You’re not that old.”
“Old enough to know better. I can also grate cheese.”
“Are you offering?” Her eyes lit up.
“Of course. I can’t just stand here in the way.”
“Be my guest.” She handed over the block of cheese and grater. “Don’t nick your knuckles. That can be painful.”
“I probably wouldn’t even know. These hands have been through a lot.” He began grating. “How much?”
“A half cup should be fine.” She went about slicing a large pepper.
He snuck glances at her as he continued his task, intentionally taking his time. She’d longed finished and had moved on to green onions, slicing them thinly. The knife continued to move deftly. “You’re pretty quick.”
She wiped the remaining slices of onion
from the knife, then tossed all of the vegetables into a glass bowl. “I’ve learned to move fast. Having a young son who says he’s starving all of the time means I have to move quickly.” The lettuce was next. She dropped some into the salad spinner, ran water through the top and spun it.
“All of these vegetables from your garden?”
“You bet. Fresh is best.”
“No kidding. They smell fresher too.” Cheese grated, he placed the small block back into the plastic wrap and sealed it tightly.
“Do you have any dreams, Gunnar?” She cast him a glance as she gently tore the lettuce into pieces.
“That’s a left fielder.”
“I’m good at catching people off guard. Especially those who don’t like to talk much.” She looked at him through the fringe of her lashes. Her eyes were lighter.
“This is the most I’ve ever talked.” He went back to his beer. “Dreams you ask? Don’t we all? I always sort of thought, once I was out of the military, I’d do construction.”
“Never thought about going back to your homestead and running the farm?”
He shook his head. “Can’t now if I wanted to. The place was sold.”
“Not a good thing?” She stopped tearing, giving him her whole attention which made him a little antsy.
He shrugged. “I’ll never know. My brother and sister had no desire to get their hands dirty on the land. And I was away. Some things just happen whether we want them to or not.”
She nodded. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but did they find Trace’s shooter?” He watched several emotions flicker across her face before settling on a look she’d probably skilled—acceptance.
“For the first year, detectives searched and searched with few clues. They were hopeful until the case closed and that’s where things are now.” Her eyes turned mysteriously moist. She blinked and the moisture was gone.
“That must be the hardest. Closure. Wanting the person who did this to pay.” Anger rushed through Gunnar. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if someone that he loved was hurt by another.
“We’re supposed to forgive, but I haven’t been able to. Maybe because I don’t know who I’m supposed to forgive for Trace’s death. For a time I was going to a church support group. The focus was on forgiveness and, when the hour was done, I would leave, come home, and go to bed and stay there for the entire day. I think everyone who has lost someone recovers at their own pace. I was overwhelmed because everyone told me to move forward, forgive, and I just wasn’t there yet. Hearing all of those sad stories of pain and death every week was like reliving that tragic evening. One day I might go back, but for now, I can’t.” Lettuce done, she grabbed the wooden board and knife, rinsing them in the sink. “Does that make me sound horrible?”
“Not in the slightest.”
She nodded. “At least Daxton is coming around. And oddly, I haven’t seen as much of Martha here lately.”
“Have I scared her away?”
She took a sip of beer and smiled. “A silent Martha is a dangerous Martha.”
“Oh, one of those mother-in-laws, huh? I’ve never had one to compare her to, but I’ve heard buddies talk about them.”
“I guess Martha would say the same about me. I’m one of those daughter-in-laws. I’m not perfect enough for her tastes.” She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and Gunnar was amazed at her natural beauty. She wore no makeup and her skin glowed.
Before he thought over his actions, he reached out and lifted the misbehaving tendril of hair that stuck to her cheek, feeling its silkiness against his fingers. Parts of him became fully aware of how good she smelled, how prefect her lips were for kissing. He leaned in, waiting for any sign that she would push him away, but her rejection didn’t come. He was so close now, her mouth slightly parted and anticipation slid through him like a groom on his wedding day.
****
“Hey, mom!” A voice rang out from down the hall as the pattering of feet sounded close.
Grace pulled back from Gunnar so fast that her weak knees almost gave out. He moved across the kitchen as Daxton came to a screeching halt, sliding on the wooden floor, his signature stop. “When’s dinner going to be done? I’m starving.”
“It’s ready.” Grace realized her voice shook, but her son had no clue what he’d just interrupted. Gunnar had almost kissed her—or she’d almost kissed him. She wasn’t sure, except that they’d been caught up in the moment. Picking up the salad bowl, and afraid she’d drop it, she held it close to her chest until she reached the table, placing it in the middle. “We can eat now. Please, sit.” She didn’t dare look at Gunnar, afraid he’d see straight into her soul that ached for the touch that never came. What else would he find there? She was afraid to examine her emotions too closely, but knowing they were in upheaval.
Everyone took a seat and, just as Grace set Daxton’s filled plate in front of him, he was already digging in. “Slow down there, little man. You’ll get indigestion,” she warned.
Gunnar laughed.
Daxton dropped his fork, wiped his hand across his mouth. “Why aren’t you married, Gunnar?”
Grace, who had been buttering a slice of bread, dropped the knife and it fell to her plate with a loud ding! “Dax, you can’t ask an adult a question like that.” Her cheeks warmed. Why? Maybe she was a bit curious, too, why he didn’t have a significant other.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” Gunnar said. “I guess I just haven’t found the right woman yet.”
Grace had a feeling he looked at her, but she kept her focus on spreading the butter from corner to corner on the bread. “Is the spaghetti good?” she asked Daxton.
“Yup.” Daxton chomped a piece of lettuce. “Why don’t you have a car?”
Gunnar stopped his fork midway, not even a smidgen of impatience at the boy’s questions. “I like walking. But I guess it might be time for me to start thinking about getting wheels.”
“Mom, why don’t you give Gunnar the truck in the garage?”
Grace squeezed her fork until her fingers ached. The truck Daxton referred to was Trace’s truck, the one he’d attempted to get running many times but failed.
“No, I couldn’t accept that,” Gunnar said.
“But no one drives it.” Daxton stuffed his mouth with a tomato.
After wrapping her brain around the idea, Grace realized it wasn’t such a bad idea. Trace wouldn’t want the truck just sitting there, and it was just a truck. “You know, Daxton is onto something. I can tell you the truck needs some work, but if you can get it up and running, it’s yours. After all, I’d like to add deliveries to your list of jobs, and the truck, with all of the space in back, would be perfect.”
Gunnar smiled. “I must be doing a great job around here if you’re planning to keep me.”
She shrugged, daring to take a quick glance at him. “At the rate you’re heading, you’re going to run out of jobs so I have to figure out something for you to do to help me.” Realizing how her words could have been misunderstood, heat spread from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. What was wrong with her?
“I can fiddle with the engine and see what’s wrong, but we’ll consider it a company vehicle. Maybe even put a sign on the side, ‘Atwell’s Floral.’”
Grace liked how he always thought of the same things she would.
From there, Daxton monopolized most of the conversation with questions aimed at an understanding and willing Gunnar.
Do you like snakes?
Do you read books?
Will you come and see one of my baseball games?
Do you watch football?
Have you ridden a roller coaster?
The sun set and the light filtering in through the open window shifted, casting the room in a shadow. Grace hadn’t realized how long they’d sat there, talking and enjoying the meal. She’d also noticed that Daxton had finished and this had been the longest he’d sat still in a long time.
/> “Mom, can I go outside?”
“No, it’s time for you to take a shower.”
“Oh, come on, mom”
“No argument.”
The boy pushed back his chair with a loud squeak and darted up the stairs.
Grace and Gunnar put away the leftovers into plastic dishes and loaded the dishwasher. She found his way of just jumping in and helping nice. Trace had never worked in the kitchen. He’d been raised to believe that it was a woman’s work. Martha had spoiled him.
Grabbing a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, she poured herself a glass. “Tea?”
“I’d love some.”
Two glasses poured, she turned on the radio and they went out onto the porch.
The breeze blew cooler and the leaves danced as if warning them that a storm brewed. Grace leaned against the rail watching Jessa dig in the yard. She caught Gunnar’s profile as he leaned against the wood, sipping his tea and laughing at Jessa’s antics. Everyone here seemed happy since he’d arrived, even the dog.
No denying for the first time in a long time she didn’t have a sinking feeling weighing on her shoulders.
One of her favorite slow songs started playing. “I love this song.”
He pushed off the rail, walked over and set his glass on the table. He held out his hand, palm up. “Then let’s not let it go to waste.”
She looked up from his calloused palm to his warm gaze. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“Of course. I’m not the greatest, but I won’t step on your toes.”
She laid her hand into his and they walked together to the middle of the porch.
Chapter Seven
Grace was a much better dancer than he was, Gunnar thought as they moved to the slow tune. The best part was how her soft body pressed against his. Sparks trickled through him and he wanted to bottle them up. They felt so good.
The wind lifted her scent and drifted across his nose, a mixture of citrus and wildflowers. It was amazing. Her hair took a life of its own, wild and untamed around her flushed cheeks. They moved with each other, becoming one, as the soft tunes brought them together like melted chocolate.
He slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer, pressing her breasts against his chest and her slender hips against his. A repeat of earlier, but with all of their clothes on.
Unexpected Hero (Buttermilk Valley Book 1) Page 9
