“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He scrunched his face to relieve the numbness in his cheeks. Ice clung to the sleeves of his black North Face coat. He wiggled his stiff fingers in his insulated gloves. What on earth was he thinking?
“Come in.” Darcy stepped aside.
Legs frozen with a layer of snow frosting his jeans, Dean stepped onto her rug and into a wall of heat.
She closed the door behind him. “Is everything OK?”
The oil lamp splashed light against her soft curves. What was the question? Oh, yes. He hadn’t decided yet. “Without power. Figured you were too.” He shifted his boots on the rug. “Need anything?”
A smile curled her lips. “Um, not right now. I prepared ahead of time.”
This was a bad idea. She probably thought him a lunatic. He did.
Dean nodded. “Good.”
He’d done his neighborly duty. Now he could go. He pivoted toward the door, but she caught his sleeve.
“You’re not going back out in that, are you?”
More ice and snow slapped the windows.
He didn’t want to go back out in that mess, but he couldn’t stay either. Why had he come again? Because his parents had ingrained the love-your-neighbor rule upon him, that’s why. Not that he loved Darcy. He didn’t even know her. Didn’t care to. In fact, he should check on his other neighbors, too. To make it fair and all.
Dean rubbed his forehead, the frosty fabric scratching against his skin. His thoughts bounced around like a steel marble in a pinball game.
“Well, come on. Take your coat off. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and put it in a thermos before the power went out. I’ve got plenty of snacks. Have you eaten?”
More food. He nodded.
“Coffee?”
“Uh…sure.”
She paused in the kitchen doorway. “Guess you’ll need the light.”
He extracted his flashlight from his coat pocket and flicked it on.
“Good thinking. Make yourself at home,” she called from the next room.
That was possible. Yet difficult. Dean shed his coat and removed his boots. In thick wool socks, he padded to the mud room, his frozen toes reviving, and hung up his coat, mentally kicking himself for coming.
Dean loaded his arms with wood from the stack beside the coatrack. In the living room, the fire crackled, still he added logs to the flames. He’d spent many a winter’s night by this old fireplace. Memories of his first Christmas Eve as a married man consumed him with the wave of heat.
They’d spent the holidays with his parents that year. He could feel Bethany in his arms right now, tangled together in a sleeping bag made for one. Christmas tree lights twinkled in the darkened room, shimmering off his wife’s chestnut hair. The fire roared, its heat no match for the fever between them. The grandfather clock announced each passing hour spent whispering dreams about their future, sharing kisses, making—
“Some storm out there, huh?”
Dean cleared his throat. “This is nothing.”
Darcy offered a mug. “Nothing? It’s a blizzard out there.”
Her smooth fingertips brushed his in the exchange, spreading warmth up his arm, knowing it had nothing to do with the hot coffee or the fireplace. His heart knew he shouldn’t betray Bethany’s memory by an attraction to another woman so soon. His body, however, did not.
“Live here long enough, and you’ll see what I mean.” Why had he confessed that? If the storm didn’t concern him then she’d wonder why he came over at all.
She sank onto her red striped, ultra-modern couch, barely big enough for the two of them. “It’s really nice of you to check on me.”
Don’t make it out to be more than it is. “Just being neighborly.” After all, she had provided him with most of his meals lately. Seemed like the right thing to do.
She pressed her full lips to her mug and sipped. “I’m glad you came. Sitting in the dark, listening to the house settle and the storm rage outside, made this big house feel a little creepy.”
He thawed his insides with the hot liquid.
“I was questioning my sanity just this morning for buying such a large house when it’s just me. I know it’s impractical, but I’m a history geek. Like I said before, I fell in love with the place. Had to have it. The stories hidden inside the walls, the craftsmanship, the sheer genius of that kitchen…”
Not again.
She winced. “Sorry. I know I talk too much. Old habits die hard.”
She did have a talent for squeezing a ridiculous number of sentences into a minute. But it didn’t bother him. The more she talked, the less he had to.
Her long legs stretched out in front of her, crossing at the ankles. Slim, bare feet protruded from the cuffs of her blue pajama bottoms dotted with tiny beige flowers. Red-painted toes reflected the flame’s light. Her long-sleeved top matched the hue of her pants. Loose tendrils escaped the clip-thingy securing the twist in her hair. She tucked a blonde lock behind her ear.
Have mercy, he needed a distraction. Dean searched the room for one without success. There wasn’t anything in there except furniture and the two of them. A small mantel clock. A photo of a young teenage boy next to it. No festive decorations. No tree. No lights. Much like his place. Though with her wreaths and all, she seemed the decorating type.
“What’s wrong?” Twin commas formed above the bridge of her nose.
“Not decorating for the holidays?”
“I usually don’t. This is my busiest time of the year and…well, it seems pointless to do all of that work just for me.”
Understood.
Awkward silence ensued. The fire cast a harmonious blend of light and shadows over Darcy, flickering across her creamy skin. She was an attractive woman. Very attractive. Why was she still single?
“Superman has yet to make an appearance.”
“Pardon?”
“The reason I’m still single.”
She had an uncanny ability to read his thoughts. And he hated it.
“Everyone asks eventually. Thought I’d squish the elephant in the room now and get it over with.” She bent forward and rested her mug on the end table. “Do you play cards? Or read? I have a healthy collection of books.” She gestured toward a built-in bookshelf in the corner.
He should go home. “Cards.”
Darcy propelled from the couch and retrieved a deck. She tossed him an oversized couch pillow then plunked one on the floor for herself, settling on one end of the coffee table. He did the same. The satiny fabric reminded him of Bethany and her ridiculous obsession with throw pillows on every piece of furniture they’d owned. When she died, they were the first things of hers he’d parted with, donating them to an organization that dispersed their donations to various homeless shelters. Somewhere out there, the less fortunate were sleeping on the brightest colored, gaudiest pillows money could buy.
The deck shuffled between her slender fingers. “Go Fish or Crazy Eights.”
Amateur. “Euchre.”
“I don’t know how to play that.”
“Rummy?”
She shook her head.
Good grief. “I’ll teach you how to play Euchre. It’s easy.”
“All right, but then you have to play a game of Go Fish.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Agreed.”
He explained the rules of the game, demonstrating as he went. After the third lesson, he decided he would rather brave the storm outside with bare extremities than have to explain the game’s strategy over again. He tried to mask his frustration, but she saw through it.
Darcy giggled. “I’m sorry. Let’s just play the game. I’ll catch on.”
He dealt the cards and started the game, soon regretting it. If she kept procrastinating her moves, they’d hold the world’s record for the longest game of Euchre ever played. Though the way she nibbled her bottom lip in concentration…
He returned his attention to the cards in his hand.
“I did it.” She beamed and collected the cards f
or that round. Her movie-star smile stirred something in him. When had he let his guard down? How did a woman he barely knew make him feel so comfortable, when he didn’t even feel at home around his own parents anymore?
A fat ball of fur jumped onto the table, startling him. The cat wiggled its tail and danced on the cards. Nose in the air, it purred.
Dean flinched. “He has a mustache.”
Darcy laughed. “This is Gomez.”
She picked the feline up and settled him on her lap. He detested cats.
Two turns later, Dean won the game.
“Now a game in my element.” She shuffled the cards and spread them on the table, grabbing five. He did the same, feeling silly.
“Do you have any two’s?” she asked.
“Go fish.” He scratched his cheek. “History buff, huh?”
“My dad’s a retired museum curator. It’s in my blood.”
“Do you have any aces?”
Snarling her lip, she handed one over. “Did you go to school in Boston?”
He nodded. “Do you have any fives?”
“Go fish. Do you have any tens?”
He passed her two red ones.
“Is that where you met your wife?”
He stilled. “Yes.”
“Do you have any jacks?”
“Go fish. Why the name Twin Wreaths?”
She swallowed. “My brother, David.” She lowered her voice “My twin…died when we were thirteen.”
He rubbed his thumb along the rounded edge of a card. The boy in the picture must be her brother. “What happened?”
“He’d started mowing the lawn for a little old lady that summer. A tornado the day before caused some damage around the neighborhood, and he sneaked out of our apartment to check on her. He didn’t see the power line lying on the ground.” Her amber irises glazed over.
“I’m sorry.” For what happened. And for asking. “Fours?”
She slid one across the table. “Why don’t you go out much?”
His brow hitched. “I go out.”
“Not very often.”
“Spying?”
A blush stained her cheeks. “No. Everyone around town says you like to be left alone.”
He did. “Got any queens?”
“Go fish.”
Why didn’t he get out more? “Easier that way, I guess.”
“Because of your wife’s death?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Yes.”
They finished the preschool game without any more personal questions. He won, this time unable to keep a victory grin from his face.
Darcy pursed her lips. “Slap Jack. I’m really good at that game.”
“Do you really want to suffer more humiliation?”
She hiked her chin. “I’ll win this time. You have my word.”
He chuckled, cutting the deck in two equal piles. Both sat on their haunches, ready to pounce. Gomez rubbed against his leg, and Dean shooed him away. They flipped over their cards one by one, the intensity of the game growing stronger. Finally, a jack. Before his brain could communicate to his hand, she slapped the overturned cards yelling, “Slap jack.”
His hand covered hers in a delayed reaction. He should remove it. But her skin was so soft beneath his, and something about it felt…right. The pain from her loss somehow laced with his, and his heart opened to her. Their gazes locked. His fingers tightened around hers as his attention honed on her lips. She won.
He willed his fingers to release hers. They finished the game, though neither held the vigor they’d started with. The clock struck midnight. He should definitely get going. Instead, he refilled his coffee cup and chose a book from her shelf—the biography of Henry Ford. The only masculine book in her mammoth collection of sappy romance novels.
Darcy tucked her body into the corner of the couch and opened her book. He perched on the floor by the hearth, painfully aware of her presence, every breath, every turn of the page. Dean read the first chapter, not registering a word.
After a yawn, he glanced in her direction. Eyes closed, Darcy’s head nestled in the crook of the cushions, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. He sat there, watching her sleep until the mantel clock stuck the half hour.
He slipped the book from her fingers, fighting the urge to lean forward and place a kiss on her forehead. After retrieving a throw folded over the back of the sofa, he covered her and added more logs to the fire. The wind had ceased howling. Layered and protected, he stepped out the front door, locking it before pulling it closed.
The ice had stopped pouring from the sky. The town was shrouded in black—still no electricity. Everything the beam of his flashlight washed over was arrested by a thick glaze. Snow fell around him as he stomped his cleated boots into the sidewalk, balancing his weight. At this rate it would take an hour just to cross the street. Had to be done. He couldn’t stay in that house any longer without doing something stupid.
A streetlight flickered on. Dean fixed his gaze on his glaciered house, dreading the silence that awaited him.
6
Dean swiped his sweaty palms down the legs of his jeans. Steam rolled from the skillet of pasta and tomatoes drenched in pesto. The warm herbs filled the kitchen with a pleasing aroma. With a quick stir of the tongs, the tangled noodles knotted with the emotions in his stomach.
He hadn’t cooked since Bethany died. The proof of his rusty skills stained the bottom of his T-shirt. Should he change? He didn’t want to appear overeager. It was just dinner. With a neighbor.
The doorbell bellowed a bass note, and Dean let out the breath he’d been holding. His gorgeous neighbor.
He hadn’t given any woman a second glance since he was forced back into bachelorhood. Much less asked one over for dinner. That bump on the head must’ve destroyed his sanity.
Being with Darcy reminded him of everything he was missing. Things he’d given up. Things that hadn’t crossed his mind in years. Until the last four days. He felt like a leg that had fallen asleep and was beginning to regain feeling. Half dead, half alive. The process brought both relief and pain.
At the moment, he wasn’t sure which of those feelings the gorgeous woman standing on his porch invoked. “Come in.”
Her invited foot crossing the threshold was a giant leap for mankind. On his planet anyway.
“Something smells fantastic.” Darcy passed him a fancy glass plate and slipped out of her gray coat. The static electricity from removing her hat caused a section of her hair to stick to her cheek.
Dean took her coat in his other hand to keep from tucking the strand behind her ear. “What have we here?”
“Chocolate éclairs.” She smoothed her tresses into place.
A perfect complement to dinner—dessert and company. He hung her coat on a peg and ushered her through the door leading from his shop to the rest of the house. His hand trailed down her back, and he winced, jerking away as if he’d touched a hot stove. What was he supposed to do? Say? He’d sat on the sidelines of this game so long, he forgot how to play.
Dean cleared gravel from his throat. “Soda?”
“Sure.”
He placed dessert on the counter, then piled pasta onto two plates, adding a grilled chicken breast to each. Darcy settled at the table with the salad and garlic bread. This whole scenario was surreal. Weird, yet good.
He handed her a soda and sat across from her. “Dig in.”
She looked down at her plate then at him, waiting. Did she want him to say grace? After a moment, she bowed her head. Her closed eyelids twitched. The sight of her praying, unabashed, niggled his gut. He knew his job as a child of God, but he’d retired.
Dean opened his mouth to mutter a quick prayer when her eyes popped open, and she twirled noodles around the tines of her fork. He closed his mouth.
She uttered a soft moan as she chewed.
“Like it?”
Darcy nodded, swallowing. “This is the best dinner I’ve had in a long time. I’m impressed. Is this y
our specialty, or are you a good cook in general?”
This wasn’t the half of it. He’d done most of the cooking in Boston since Bethany’s job kept her out late into the evenings. “I can cook just about anything.”
And he’d forgotten how good food could be. The frozen dinners and lunchmeat sandwiches that kept him going the past year had instantly lost their appeal. The way Darcy took small, delicate bites and chewed slowly, however, had not.
“Any plans for Christmas?” she asked.
“Not really.” It took every ounce of his patience to get through Christmas dinner with his family last year. He should’ve at least called his in-laws to wish them a happy holiday since it would be the first one without their daughter, but he hadn’t had the courage to do it. He planned to treat the day like any other this year. “You?”
“No. My parents moved to Florida and all my friends back home are married, so they’ll be busy with their own traditions.” The glint in her eyes dimmed. “No worries, though. After my Marie Callender feast, Gomez and I have a date with my towering collection of Christmas comedies.”
Didn’t most women prefer sappy films? “Comedies?”
“I have a whole selection I watch every year: A Christmas Story, Home Alone, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” She scrunched her nose. “I tend to gravitate toward chaos and disaster around the holidays.”
Dean grinned. Disaster did seem to follow her like a hungry dog.
“I avoid movies involving mistletoe and necking couples at all costs. Too depressing. A cat getting electrocuted is much more uplifting.”
Laughter filled his ears. It took a moment for his brain to register that it was coming from him. He hadn’t laughed in…he couldn’t remember how long. It felt good. Real good. He brushed his mouth with a napkin, appreciating the pink tint to her cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled.
The rest of the meal passed in comfortable camaraderie. He savored her company—her odd quirks and outspokenness. She stirred something within him he couldn’t decipher.
Darcy insisted on washing dishes while he put away the leftovers. Their teamwork felt natural. Fear weaved its way into the serene place he’d made for her. They were friends. That’s how it would stay.
Bright Copper Kettles Page 4
