Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(27)

“Rita.” Miriam said her name the way a hearth lights. Welcoming, glowing. “Your one sucky thing is already charades. You have no choice but to keep trying.”

“If I was less exhausted, I would have seen the flaw in my analogy.”

Miriam handed her a big silver ladle. “Take six.”

*



“My soufflé still blows,” Rita said, curling her fingers into the counter.

“What’s that, beautiful?”

Rita almost hit the ceiling when Jasper’s gruff voice broke into her reverie, coming very close to knocking the turkey to the floor. How long had she been standing there without saying a word? And why was Jasper holding the carving knife? More importantly, why would she rather go streaking through the fish market on a Monday then take the knife back from him? A weight was pushing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her hands shook—or they did until Jasper set down the electric blade and grabbed them.

Jasper looked at her hands a moment, as if unsure how to proceed, then he placed them carefully on his wide, steady shoulders. Watching to gauge her reaction, he started to sway, side to side. Almost like they were dancing. It was ridiculous, yet it dulled the sharp edges of her panic. But panic over what? Carving a turkey? She’d performed the task a thousand times in her life. “I don’t know what happened.”

He pressed a thumb to the small of her back, moving it in a circle, and the remaining tension swirled down the drain. “You don’t have to figure it out now.”

“I think I might have to. Sooner rather than later.” The dazed quality of Rita’s voice made her sound as if she were speaking inside a closed shower stall. It could have been the cool blue of Jasper’s eyes—the lack of judgment there—or the sudden lack of strain after her flashback. Maybe even the dancing. She didn’t know. But words passed from her lips, quietly and without permission. “I don’t think I can cook anymore.” Or try to be like her. “I don’t think I ever could, anyway.”

His lips moved against her forehead. “Now, those seem like big decisions to make at a casual lunch.”

The laugh fizzed up her sternum and broke free. “You probably wish you’d been a little less nosy, now. That’ll teach you.”

“Young people. Dancing in my kitchen.” Clapping hands went off behind Rita. Oh, God, she’d actually forgotten they were at Jasper’s grandmother’s house. These people were virtual strangers to her. Tomorrow they would be a memory, and yet she’d totally just had a fucking panic attack in their happy, cactus-themed kitchen. They’d be talking about her for years to relatives and neighbors. You’re right, of course. We never should have handed her that blade. It could have been so much worse. A tragedy, to be sure. Please pass the salt.

Rita pushed back from Jasper, who seemed oddly reluctant to let her go when he should literally be calling the local sanitarium. She held a hand to her forehead, searching for a way to make herself appear normal. “I, um—”

Jasper flipped the carving knife back on, lowering it to the turkey, which was probably cold by now. “What can I say, Rosemary? I must be some kind of secret chauvinist.” He gave an exaggerated smirk. “I saw this little lady attempting to cut the meat and my ancestors wouldn’t stand for it.”

Obviously Jasper’s grandmother was no stranger to his sense of humor, because she said, “Oh poo,” while reaching past Rita to hit him in the back with a dishrag. “Be about your business, then. I have plans for the afternoon.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” He winked at Rita, his technique perfect as he operated the blade. Of course his technique was perfect. “Tell me about your plans, Rosemary. If you’re seeing Mr. Wells for the third time this week, that counts as serious in my book and I’ll be paying him a visit.”

Rosemary nudged Rita’s arm and threw a withering glance at the heavens. As if to say, Can you believe this man? And, no, Rita couldn’t, exactly. Men usually found her strange or confusing. Sometimes she got really lucky and found a man who was turned on by strange, confusing women, but none of them cared enough to dance her out of a near panic attack. Or transitioned from calming her down to covering for her without missing a beat. Why was he donating so much energy to this temporary acquaintance? And why did she feel compelled to savor Jasper, too?

Realizing she’d been standing there too long without speaking—and paying way too much attention to the way Jasper’s triceps flexed as he operated the carver—gym membership indeed—Rita opened a couple cabinets in search of a serving plate, wanting to give him a place to lay the slices of turkey. They sat down at the dining table five minutes later, passing around the kind of food usually reserved for once a year. Still feeling a little jumpy after the memory she’d collided with in the kitchen, Rita managed to eat only a few bites of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, and turkey. Meanwhile, Jasper put away enough to feed a hungry construction crew, before asking for seconds.

“So, Miss Rita.” Rosemary waved a dinner roll across the table as if it were a cell phone and she was searching for reception. “I don’t know how much Jasper has talked about me—I’m assuming quite a lot. Did he mention my senior group?”

Rita swallowed the sip of Sprite she’d taken. “No, that might be the one thing he didn’t mention.” In her periphery she caught Jasper’s grateful wink.