At First Touch (The Malone Brothers)

by Miles, Cindy

  Just that fast, Reagan planted her pointy little elbow into his ribs.

  Jep laughed. “Right. Sounds like it. And get me a candy bar, son. A big one.”

  “Copy that, Gramps,” Eric wheezed, and stuffed the phone in his back pocket. He rubbed his side. “You punch pretty hard for a runt.”

  “You deserved it,” she countered, and started pushing the grocery cart. “A large jar of plain sauce and angel-hair pasta, if you don’t mind.”

  “Good choice,” he answered, and grabbed the items from the shelf. He could tell Reagan was just not going to cave. They passed a woman holding a silver tray filled with meat and cheese on toothpicks, and Eric plucked two up and grinned at the woman. He popped one chunk of cheese in his mouth.

  “Reagan, here, you gotta try this cheese.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Eric popped the other one and nodded at the woman. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I could eat the whole tray.” Still she said nothing. “Anything else?”

  “French bread,” she answered. “Wine.”

  “Gotcha.” They made their way first to the wine and beer aisle, where he studied the entire row of choices.

  “Red or white or...pink?” he asked.

  “Red.”

  Ah, at least she did care about that one. Scanning the red choices, he picked one, staring at the label and wondering how in the hell he was supposed to know if it was right or not, shrugged, nestled it into the cart, then headed to the bread aisle, and he handed her a store-made loaf. “How’s this one?” He glanced down at her, watching her response.

  She squeezed it, looking completely uninterested. “Fine.”

  Eric laughed. “Reagan, you didn’t even smell it.”

  A second—maybe two—passed before she lifted it to her nose and inhaled. She nodded. “Like I said—fine.”

  Eric dropped his head and sighed. “Anything else? If you say one single girlie product—” he glanced up and around “—or anything from aisle eleven, actually, I’ll strangle you.”

  A tiny smile coaxed her lips upward. She even tried to hide it by turning her head. So slight a movement he nearly missed it.

  But he didn’t. And it made him grin.

  She shook her head. “Nope. After the meat aisle I’m finished.”

  “Are you sure? I mean...” He bumped her shoulder with his and they made their way to the meat department. “We could make three more passes by the deli and nearly get an entire meal from that lady holding the platter of cheese jammed on toothpicks.”

  Again, she shook her head and tried to hide a smile. “You’re so weird,” she said. “No, thanks.”

  “All right, then,” he answered, proud that he’d coaxed an almost-laugh from her. “But don’t be all sorry about it later, when you’re wishing you had cheese on a stick.”

  “I’ll consider it,” she answered. She sighed. “Thanks for helping me out, Malone.”

  His gaze raked over her, and he tugged her ponytail. “Anytime. And I mean that.” He glanced down at the sausage. “Sweet or hot?”

  She gave a nod. “Sweet.” Eric grabbed a large pack and together they made their way to the milk aisle, where Eric grabbed a gallon of whole milk and Jep’s buttermilk, then headed to the front of the store. He guided Reagan to a relatively empty checkout line. After loading all of the items, including a monster candy bar for Jep, Eric slid his card through to pay.

  “Eric,” Reagan said, and when he looked, she held a fifty-dollar bill. “Please.”

  “Well, I would,” he countered, lowering her hand with his. “But I aim to eat some of this fine Italiano fare you’re preparing, so it’s only right that I pay for it.”

  The frown on her face proved she was not very happy.

  “Besides, I already slid my card.” He looked at the cashier, Sarah, and inclined his head. “Tell her, Sarah. I already slid the card. What’s done is done.”

  Sarah was a middle-aged woman with black hair tucked behind her ears and several shots of silver showing at her temples. Her eyebrows rose and she shrugged, but a smile tipped her lipstick-pink lips. She’d worked at the market for years now. “It’s true, honey. The card hath sliddeth, the deal done.”

  Eric winked at Sarah and grinned.

  Reagan shook her head. “You didn’t have to.” Then she lifted her chin. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “But if you pull something like that again, I’ll hurt you.”

  Eric cast a quick glance at Sarah and shrugged.

  “Gotcha. You’ll hurt me,” he offered. “Let’s get outta here, eh?”

  The moment the automatic doors opened, heat poured in, replacing the frigid temp of the grocery store. The parking lot was filling up, and they made their way to Jep’s truck. “Sorry, no air,” he apologized. Jep’s truck was like a damned oven. “Weird, but I kinda like it like that.”

  “I’m used to it,” Reagan claimed, and, holding on to the lip of the truck bed, made her way to the passenger’s side.

  Eric quickly loaded the grocery bags, parked the cart in the drop spot and hurried back to the truck. He leaped in. “Anywhere else?” he asked, turning over the engine.

  “We have meat and dairy in the back, Eric,” Reagan reminded.

  Eric glanced at his occupant. “So. We’ll drop the stuff off and go grab a bite to eat? Maybe?” He pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Thanks, but no,” she said. “I need to get back home.”

  “But Reagan, we can—”

  She turned to him then, blue eyes crazy mad and glassy. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Eric turned another quick glance at Reagan. “Other than you’re gorgeous? Hmm. Gimme a sec. Let me think...”

  She turned to the open window, facing away from him.

  For once, he didn’t push. He left her to her thoughts as they crossed the two-lane bridge that carried them over the marsh and back to the island. Every few moments, he’d glance her way. Her body was rigid again, uncomfortable, like she was ready to bolt. Did he make her that uneasy? And wasn’t he doing it on purpose to lighten her up? Eric made it all the way to her drive, then, surprisingly, to her house, without uttering another word. The moment the truck stopped, she opened the door.

  “Reagan,” he started, and climbed out and met her at the tailgate.

  She slipped her glasses back on. “Look, Eric. I appreciate your eagerness to help me. But...I just can’t.”

  “Can’t what?” he asked.

  “All this...smelling of things, and seeing with my other senses. I’m just not ready for this new life that’s been thrown at me.” She inhaled, lifted her chin. “And I’m not ready for you.”

  “Me? Aw, come on, of course you’re ready for me. There’s nothing to me. Really. I swear.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Can you just leave my bags on the porch by the door?”

  Eric stared at her, and she was reeking with frustration, anger. She was independent, and she’d been robbed of it. Being a soldier? Yeah, she took it twice as hard. He could tell. “What? And risk Jep, either of my brothers or, hell, your sister socking me in the nose for just throwing your stuff on the porch?” He laughed softly and grabbed the bags, slipping them all onto both of his forearms. “Hell and no. Soldier, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to tap your little stick up those steps there and open the door for me. I’m already loaded down with your groceries.”

  Reagan swore under her breath. He couldn’t quite make out the word, exactly, but thought it sounded familiar. Then she started moving toward the porch, her stick slapping at the ground in angry swipes until she felt the hard-wood planks. Once up the steps, she stomped to the door and unlocked it.

  “You can set them on the counter in the kitchen,” she spat.

  Eric trotted up the steps an
d brushed past her. Sitting all of the bags on the granite countertop, he turned to find Reagan still standing by the door. It was still open. A silent invitation for him to leave.

  With a hefty sigh, Eric walked to her, and just before he stepped outside, he stopped. Regarded her face, the angry lines around her mouth. He knew she wasn’t specifically angry at him. He was her outlet, probably.

  And he was going to work that anger right out of her.

  “Thanks for taking me,” she announced again. “I...appreciate it.”

  “What time should I be back?” he asked, smiling.

  She shook her head and stared off toward the kitchen, aggravated. “Just...come whenever your brother comes.”

  Eric’s grin widened. “Do you know how foxy you are when you’re pissed off?”

  Reagan’s mouth pulled tight...right over the smile she was trying so hard to keep off her face. “Shut up and leave, will ya?”

  Eric’s lips twitched and he leaned closer. God, she was so damn cute. “Please don’t screw up the ingredients.”

  “Out!” Reagan barked.

  Scooting past her, he stepped outside, and with a final glance over his shoulder, stared at his new neighbor. His old childhood pal.

  The hot girl he was determined to make laugh.

  Eric stopped at Jep’s truck and glanced over his shoulder, staring at the Quinns’ river house. A slow smile tipped his lips upward. “See ya tonight, Reagan Rose!”

  When she didn’t answer, he merely chuckled, put the old truck into Reverse and headed home.

  * * *

  APPARENTLY, REAGAN DIDN’T know the force she was up against. Yeah, flirting was his character, and all along he’d been telling himself he was just helping out an old childhood pal.

  But was he really?

  CHAPTER SIX

  REAGAN LISTENED TO the gravel crunch as Eric drove slowly up the drive.

  Since when had he made it his personal mission to drive her crazy?

  Standing in the kitchen, the house’s muteness all but consumed her. She strained her ears, trying to listen. To distinguish other sounds. Anything to break the silence.

  Light filtered in through the many windows of the river house, causing more shapes of objects to appear in shadowy forms. Reagan strained her eyes as she scanned the counter, and began feeling inside each grocery bag to determine what needed to go into the refrigerator. Milk. Fruit. A package—square, cold, with plastic covering—came to her palm. She squeezed it a few times, trying to figure it out. She sniffed it. Nothing. Perhaps Eric had bought something and had forgotten to take it out of her bag? She sat it in the fridge, then turned to the lower cabinets, opening the one closest to the stove and feeling for a frying pan, a pot and the colander. Setting each atop the stove, Reagan moved along the counter, her hand outstretched, searching for the cutting board. Her fingertips brushed something hard, and then it fell over and crashed to the floor.

  “Dammit,” Reagan muttered, and stood still, trying to get her bearings. Easing right, she made her way to the pantry, opened it and found the broom. She began to blindly sweep the area in a wide arc, hoping to get it all. Finished, she inhaled, and continued on with the task of now finding a knife. Dangerous? Yeah, probably so. Hopefully, she’d dice the tomatoes, peppers and onions without chopping off a finger. She’d just go slow. Take it easy.

  At the sink, as Reagan washed the vegetables, her thoughts drifted to the morning spent with Eric. She hadn’t meant to sound so...stiff. Unfriendly. Ungrateful. She used to never be that way at all. Now? She felt...mad, all the time. Inadequate. The unwanted center of pitied attention. Eric’s personality was opposite of the way she was now. He was so upbeat. Involved. Ridiculously charming. Seemingly carefree. Just like he’d been as a kid. From what she could recall, anyway. It’s not like she and Eric had been as close as Em and Matt. Reagan barely remembered the little brat.

  But for some reason, said brat seemed set on involving himself in her new, less-than-desirable blind life.

  What was she to do with that?

  Shaking her head, she continued on to her task of attempting dinner preparations. Tasks she’d completed in record time before now took her long, tedious minutes. Em had told her the cutting board was behind the mixer on the counter, so she felt her way there and moved her fingers over the cool surface until they brushed the hard metal of the standing mixer. Sliding her hand around she felt the wooden cutting board, and she pulled it out. Feeling for the first bit of vegetable she’d washed, Reagan lifted what she believed was a pepper—smooth and waxy beneath her fingertips—and sniffed it. Definitely a pepper. Now for a sharp knife. Reagan thought about it. Where had her sister said they’d be? She reached into a drawer. One by one she checked through the drawers until she felt the blade of a knife and lifted it out. Examining it carefully, she determined it wasn’t exactly the type of blade she needed, but it’d have to make do.

  After what seemed like hours, Reagan completed the chopping of the vegetables. Not before she dropped half of them onto the floor, or knocked them onto the floor with her arm or hand. Finding the sauce—she hoped—Reagan dumped them into the pot, added the vegetables, and felt the burner knob with her fingertips. Hoping the setting was on low, she turned to the task of browning the sausage. Draining it in the colander. Adding it to the sauce. Finally, the entire process was done and the sauce simmered on the stove top.

  And then a knock interrupted preparations.

  “Reagan? Eric Malone again.” A voice came from the porch. “I uh, came to help. You. With, uh, supper— God it smells good in here.”

  Reagan just shook her head. Did he think her totally incompetent? “Come on in.”

  The door creaked open, almost before the words even left her mouth, and Eric’s heavy footfalls moved toward her. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I didn’t want to be eating, I don’t know, cardboard and stems—dang, girl. You’ve made a mess in here.”

  Reagan’s ears detected laughter in Eric’s voice, and she just sighed. “Yeah, well, help yourself to clean it up.”

  “Gladly. Broom?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Pantry.”

  Instead of the pantry door opening, Reagan saw Eric’s shadow move toward the stove. The metal lid scraped as he removed it. “Hey,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not too shabby, soldier. Tastes even better than it smells.”

  A faint smile touched Reagan’s lips. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

  Suddenly, Eric’s hands grasped hers. “Digits? Let me examine you.” His thumbs grazed her palms, then each finger. “Nine total. Is that right?”

  She shook her head and withdrew her hands. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

  “Seriously. It’s very good. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

  “Why?” Reagan asked. “Because a blind girl can actually still function in the kitchen?”

  Eric laughed. “No. That you can actually function in the kitchen. Emily told me you hate cooking.”

  Reagan shrugged, patting the counter until she found the pepper core, then scooped it in her hand. “Hate is a little drastic. Disinclination is more accurate.”

  “That’s a fancy word for hate, Reagan Rose.” Again, his hand was on hers, prying her fingers open and relieving her of the pepper core. “I’ll get that.” She heard the sound of the core being dropped into the trash can. “Okay, now what?”

  Reagan turned and washed her hands, then felt for the towel and dried them. No way was she getting rid of him, so she might as well just roll with it. “I was going to make garlic butter for the bread. You can...chop the salad.”

  “Sweet, let’s do it,” he said, a lilt in his voice. “What do you need for the butter besides, well, butter. And garlic?”

  “Oregano and basil from the spice cabinet, next to the oven,” Reagan added.


  “Copy that,” Eric said cheerfully. A rustling sounded, then he plunked the bottles down on the counter. “Okay, you’re all set.”

  They were kind of silent for a while, and although Reagan was concentrating on her butter mixture, the sound of Eric’s low whistling as he chopped the vegetables invaded her thoughts.

  Then something soft and cold hit her square on the forehead.

  She lifted her face and stared straight ahead. “You did not just throw tomato at me.”

  Eric chuckled. “Nope. A grape.”

  “Um, why?”

  “What happened over there?” he asked. No pause. No hesitation. Just matter-of-fact. “Your accident. I’d like to know, if you don’t mind telling me.”

  Reagan went still and set down the wooden spoon she was using. She turned toward Eric. “And you feel you have to start a food fight to ask that?”

  Eric sighed. “A food fight involves two people, Reagan, each slinging a—”

  A thump against the wall let Reagan know her food missile had totally missed its mark. She didn’t care.

  “That was like, wow—three feet away from my head,” Eric informed her. “A clove of garlic? Really, Reagan Rose? And you’re avoiding the question, Quinn. Tell me.”

  Reagan sighed, felt for the block of butter and began peeling off the waxy paper cover. “Not much to tell, really. It happened fast. A fuel leak, I was on the tarmac, and a spark. The last thing I saw was a flash of fire, just before fuel spewed all over me and into my eyes.” She inhaled, remembering the day so clearly. “One second I was standing upright, the next I was thrown back from the blast and was out like a light. I woke in the hospital, my head and eyes wrapped in bandages.” She set the butter in the pot and stirred in the garlic. “I remember feeling...suffocated. Later I found out my friend had thrown a tarp over me, to make sure I didn’t flame up.” She gave a short laugh. “And there you have it, Malone. Mystery of the disappearing sight solved.” The slight sizzle of melting butter and garlic rose, and she stirred it with the wooden spoon. She reached for the herbs, but before she could twist the top off the first jar, Eric’s fingers were relieving her of it.