Picket Fence Surprise

by Kris Fletcher

  Heather wasn’t certain what had happened, but she was pretty sure that if Perfume Girl could see Xander now, she would definitely be kicking herself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NEXT EVENING, Xander rang Heather’s bell, checked to make sure the collar of his polo shirt wasn’t folded under itself and wondered—again—if he was being incredibly smart or unbelievably hopeless.

  This was a business exchange. Dinner for input. A simple trade of goods and services with absolutely no reason to feel more nervous than he had on any of the many, many first dates in the last year.

  Yeah, try telling that to his stomach.

  Heather pulled the door open with a flustered smile. “Hey. Come on in, sorry, I have to—” And with that she took off toward the kitchen. A moment later he heard the clang of cookware, followed by some pretty creative cursing.

  “Everything okay?” He followed the sounds to the sunny yellow kitchen, where Heather frowned at a pan on the stove.

  “Barely,” she answered. “I started the chicken and pulled up the brochure, but then I had this fabulous idea about—about something I want to add, and time got away from me and I forgot all about this.” She pointed toward the pan. “Good thing you showed up when you did. Otherwise I’d have to convince you that this was supposed to be Cajun-blackened stir-fry.”

  He bit back the smile. “I like Cajun food.”

  “So do I.” She pointed her wooden spoon toward the window. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, that’s not the Mighty Mississippi out there.”

  “It isn’t? Guess it’s time to get my glasses checked.”

  “You don’t wear glasses.”

  “It’s a cutting-edge frame. So thin they’re invisible.”

  She moved in and stared into his eyes. His breath caught in his lungs. All he could hear was the soft catch of her breath and the parting words from the woman he’d met last night, when she leaned across the table and told him that if he wanted to be with the blonde in the other booth, he should go to that table.

  His gaze shifted, breaking the connection but giving him an excellent view of Heather’s lips.

  She stepped back. “You’re right. Cutting edge, for sure.”

  He inhaled while he could and made a show of peering into the pan. “So now that you saved the stir-fry, do you need a hand in here?”

  “Sure. You can slice the onions.” She handed him a cutting board. “Have fun crying.”

  “Heartless, Heather. You’re truly heartless.”

  “I know. All my guests complain about this.”

  Except he wasn’t really a guest—not that his jittery pulse could keep that in mind.

  She stretched to reach a bowl on the top shelf. He followed the line of her body with his eyes, lingering at a few well-chosen places while he had the opportunity.

  “Do you need me to get that for you?”

  She scowled over her shoulder. “You tall people. Always lording it over us shorties.”

  “That wasn’t lording it over you.” He stepped around her, grabbed the bowl she pointed at and held it above her head just out of reach. “This is lording it over you.”

  “You do realize I’m at the perfect height to punch you in the stomach.”

  “Here you go. One bowl, safe and sound.” Huh. He’d never had anyone reply that way before.

  “Thank you.” Her smile oozed sweetness. “Start chopping. How do you feel about ginger?”

  “The more the better.”

  “We’re going to get along just fine.” She dumped a bag of broccoli florets into the bowl, added a handful of snow peas and tossed in a can of water chestnuts with a flourish worthy of a cooking-reality-show contestant. “Is it totally rude if I ask if you had a good time last night?”

  “Not rude. And let’s say I’ve had better nights.” This one, for example.

  “She didn’t look like your type.”

  “How do you know she wasn’t my parole officer?”

  The question slipped out without thought. He started to give himself a mental head slap, then remembered, this was Heather. He could make jokes around her. He could be himself. It was like when he was hanging around Ian and Darcy, but even better, because he didn’t have to remind himself—even in the tiniest, quietest corner of his mind—that he was dealing with someone who had a huge say in his relationship with Cady.

  “Of course she wasn’t a parole officer. She wasn’t wearing the right shoes.”

  “What?”

  “Parole officers wear sensible shoes when they’re on the job. She was wearing heels with a serious display of toe cleavage. Definitely not working shoes, unless she was planning to work a street corner.”

  It was an everyday kind of joke. Certainly didn’t merit the relief he felt. But a small knot of worry eased somewhere in the vicinity of his gut.

  As opposed to the stirrings of interest taking place a bit lower.

  “Okay, you got me. It was a first meet.”

  Heather made a face that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the onions she took from him. “Okay, I love Timmie’s as much as the next Canadian, but seriously, Xander? Shouldn’t a first date involve, oh, flowers? Candles? A waiter?”

  “Hey, it was her idea. I would have gone for something a lot fancier. Arches, at the very least.”

  “And my admiration goes up exponentially.” She poured soy sauce into a measuring cup. “So come on. Now that we’ve started down this topic, I need details. Blind date, Tinder or dating website?”

  “Website.”

  “Bummer. Those usually have the most info. Did she lie in her profile?” She fixed him with a stern gaze that he was pretty sure Millie had seen more than once. “I hope you didn’t.”

  “No lies. At least not on my part. Are you ready for your brochure lesson?”

  “You really think you can distract me that easily?”

  “No, but it was worth a shot.” And a heck of a lot safer than letting Heather ask what had led to his so-called date storming out of the place in a huff. He wasn’t ready to talk about that one.

  At least, he didn’t think he was ready.

  Heather sighed and ran a hunk of ginger over a grater. “Fine. Message received. I’ll stop interrogating you, but only because it’s rude, and I want to stay on your good side so you’ll help me.” She stared at the pan. “’Cause to be honest, I’m not sure the semi-Cajun-blackened dinner is going to be worthy.”

  “Don’t worry. I like almost anything that’s not cooked in an institutional kitchen.”

  He hadn’t meant to slip that one in—at least, not consciously—but as he waited for her reply, he admitted that, yeah, maybe there was something going on here. That maybe he wanted to be very certain of her standing about him, the past and screwups. Not just out of general interest, either.

  She didn’t take or reject his conversational bait. Instead, she simply laughed.

  “Okay. I think I can handle those standards.” She added the ginger to the soy sauce and hit a button on the rice cooker. “This needs to sit for a few minutes. Let’s go play with margins.”

  He was on her tail before remembering that he should have found a way to walk ahead instead of behind, because she was wearing those shorts again.

  Couldn’t a guy catch a break once in a while?

  She sat down, thank God, on the sofa and reached for the laptop among the piles of papers, files and books.

  “Research much?” he asked as he took a chair kitty-corner to her.

  “I want to be sure I get this right. The problem with basing this on local history is that a good chunk of folks in this town know it better than I ever will.”

  “Maybe not after you’re done with these.”

  “Here’s hoping.” She handed over the lap
top. “Okay, maestro. Make it sing.”

  His fingers settled into their familiar pattern on the keyboard. A buzz of something like anticipation hummed through him. He used computers all the time—at home, at work—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself approach one for anything creative. Not that most people would consider what he’d done creative, but there had been an element of imagination there, a need to experiment and explore that had called to him. This wouldn’t be the same, but it was still new. Still a challenge. He needed that.

  Needed, too, to have someone hand over their laptop without a nervous joke or a moment’s hesitation. Something he’d become so prepared for that he no longer noticed it until just now, with Heather. When, for the first time in forever, it hadn’t happened.

  “Okay.” He scooted closer to her. Just so she could see the screen, of course. “The first thing you’re going to do is...”

  He talked her through the process, making her do the actual changes so she would be more likely to remember. Watching was one thing. Hands-on learning, he had found, was a lot more likely to be retained.

  And that, he ordered himself, was all the hands-on that would be happening here today. Even if Heather did accept him. And even if those shorts should be outlawed. And even if his date had clued in that he was far more interested in what was happening with Heather and Hank than what was happening between the two of them.

  Wait a minute. Heather and Hank.

  “Hang on. We interrupt this lesson for an important question. Were you and Hank talking about custody last night?”

  She raised her head and blinked—probably trying to figure out where that had come from—before saying, “Um, sort of.” A tentative grin lit her face. “The topic was addressed.”

  “How did it go?”

  The grin faded slightly. “He’s... Let’s say, this will be a slow process for him. I can’t blame him for that, not after...after everything. He’s doing the safe, protective father thing, which is exactly why I knew that Millie would be better—would be in excellent hands while I was gone. So I really can’t complain when he does it now.”

  “No, I guess not.” Again, a multitude of whys danced through his brain. Heather leaving Millie had never made sense to him, and the more he saw of her, the less he understood it. Especially that bit she had almost let slip just now. Millie would be better...what? Better off with Hank than with Heather? Better off without her mother?

  No. He would never believe that one.

  Did he dare ask?

  “Heather,” he began, “could I—”

  “Oh, I am such a doofus. I totally forgot what I had to ask you.” Her interruption was far too bright and determined to be coincidence.

  No questions. Got it.

  “What’s that?” He slid a couple of inches away and leaned back against the cushions.

  “I told you there would be a treasure map on the front. But here, on the center page, I want to put a photo. One that makes people think about hidden things. One that might, you know, mesmerize them.” She tipped her head to the side with a saucy grin. “You wouldn’t happen to know of anything like that, would you?”

  “I thought you had a problem with me taking pictures there.”

  “I do. It’s not safe, and it’s probably trespassing. But since you already have it, and since it would work so perfectly, would you be willing to let me use it? With full credit, of course. And only for this sample, so, just a onetime use.”

  He went back and forth in his brain. On the one hand, he was flattered. On the other, she was right. He probably was trespassing, though he never went inside and hadn’t seen any signs. He wouldn’t want to do anything that might lead to a problem down the line.

  But what were the odds?

  “Sure.”

  As soon as she grinned, he knew where Millie had got her smile. “Awesome. Thank you so much. It’ll be perfect. I’ll find a release form online and—”

  She was interrupted by a beeping from the kitchen. “Oops. Time to do the Julia Child thing.”

  He followed along, carried in the wake of her excited talk about the project and the interview.

  “Not that I have any serious expectations that I’ll get the job,” she said as she flipped vegetables in the wok with a practiced hand. “I mean, strike one, I don’t have any real experience in tourism. And strike two, I just happen to be That Conniving Girl who trapped nice Hank North into marrying her, then ran off and left him with their baby.”

  He wasn’t sure what caught him most off guard—her words, or the matter-of-fact tone in which she delivered them.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “What, my glorious reputation?” She shrugged and added the sauce. “Trust me. I’ve heard it, or a variation thereof, on a regular basis since I moved back. Add in the fact that Hank’s family is the single largest employer in town—as you well know, since you work there—and you’ll understand why I’m not getting my hopes up. Even though, the more I get into this, the more I like it.”

  “Wait a minute. Back up.” He still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You mean people actually say that stuff to you?”

  Her look was a mix of compassion and resignation. “Come on, Xander. You can’t be surprised by this.”

  In all honesty, he wasn’t. He’d been on the receiving end of too many sideways comments himself to think that most folks lived by the old if you can’t say something nice advice. But he definitely felt something. Something a lot more unpleasant than mere surprise. Something he would best describe as anger.

  “I hope to hell you told—whoever—to take a long walk off a short pier.”

  “What would be the point?” Her shoulders sagged slightly. “It’s all true. Well, except the part about me trapping Hank. That, I would never have done.” She poked at the food, her movements small and careful now.

  “They still shouldn’t say it. It’s not like anyone gets through life without messing up sometime.”

  “I know that. You know that.” She leveled her spatula in his direction. “But knowing it and believing it are two different things for most people.”

  He wished he could argue with that, but he couldn’t. Not without lying.

  “Anyway.” She shook her head and pulled up another smile, slightly dimmed, but very determined. “It looks like I didn’t totally kill this, so what do you say we eat?”

  Okay. If she wanted to play it that way, he’d go along.

  Despite the less than auspicious start, dinner was a success. Heather got her groove back and told him stories of some of the folks she’d worked with over the years. He had a few good ones of his own, tales of some of the exploits he and Ian had gotten into in university. And of course they talked about their kids. He had the feeling that she, as did he, liked nothing better than talking about her daughter.

  It wasn’t until she said something about the river and he glanced out the window that he realized they had talked until well past dusk.

  “Whoa, what time is it?”

  She checked the clock, her eyes widening. “Oh my gosh. It’s almost ten!”

  “I had no idea... Here. Let me help you clean up, and then I’ll get out of your way.”

  “There’s really only one pan to wash. Everything else can go in the dishwasher.”

  “Fine. You load that, and I’ll wash the pan.”

  Sure enough, the kitchen was put back to rights in ten minutes. It probably could have gone faster if not for the fact that midway through soaping up the pan, he told her a prison joke that had her bent double with laughter, silverware slipping from her fingers onto the floor.

  When was the last time that had happened? Not just the laughter, but the ease, the banter, the feeling that it was okay to be himself? He couldn’t remember. The only certainty was t
hat he had missed it. He liked it.

  And even though he knew it was a bad idea, he wanted to know what else might go so well between them. Wanted to hear that laughter turn teasing. Wanted to hear it thicken. Wanted to feel it against his chest, against his neck, against his lips.

  And from the way she suddenly wouldn’t meet his gaze as she walked him to the door, he had a feeling that she might be doing some wanting and wondering of her own.

  “Thanks again,” she said, her tone oddly formal after their earlier laughter. “You’ve been a lifesaver with this.”

  “My pleasure. And thanks for dinner. Cajun-blackened stir-fry has never tasted so good.”

  Her laugh this time was a little higher, a little more restrained. Like she was...nervous. Maybe a little shy. Maybe a little uncertain as to what should happen when they reached the door.

  Because even though they had been in the house all night, walking toward the entry flipped a switch. Work and computers and jobs slipped away. All that remained was the lightness that had flowed between them.

  And a big honking pink elephant named Desire.

  “Let me know if I can do anything else for you.” Read between the lines, Heather.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  He grabbed the doorknob. “I, uh, had a really good time.”

  “Me, too. I mean... I never thought that margins and font sizes could be so much fun.”

  “You can find fun in all kinds of unexpected places.”

  She nodded. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess you can.”

  Great friendship, he reminded himself. Lots of complications. Awkward consequences.

  Not that knowing the consequences had stopped him before.

  She inhaled sharply through her nose, hands clasped tightly, head tipping up to look at him. It was all controlled except for the long line of invitation along her neck, the soft skin calling him like he was a vampire that hadn’t fed in days.

  Come to think of it, that wasn’t so far off.

  He let go of the doorknob and stepped closer.