Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(59)

“Hairbrush.”

“Hairbrush? How could a hairbrush give you a scar on your eyebrow?” I laughed, settling back against his leg. He was sitting with his back against the headboard, sheets puddling low on his waist while I faced him, his propped-up legs acting as my headboard.

His hand closed around my ankle, his fingers gentle and soothing on my skin. “I pissed off my brother Seth, he threw the hairbrush, next thing I know I’ve got blood seeping through my hands and my brothers are all running down the hall screaming for my mom. Seth ran the opposite way to hide in the barn, convinced he’d killed me.”

“How old were you?”

“I was eight, he was ten,” Oscar said, smiling at the memory. “I’d been teasing him all night about finding Cindy Montgomery’s school picture folded up in his wallet.”

“What were you doing in your brother’s wallet?”

“That’s exactly what he asked me, right before he threw the hairbrush.” Oscar laughed. “Ended up in the emergency room, with eight stitches. And this scar.”

“I think it’s sexy,” I whispered, crawling up his body and perching with one leg on either side of his waist. “It was one of the first things I noticed about you. Now tell me about the big one.”

“The big one?” he asked, lifting his hips up into mine with a suggestive grin.

“The big scar on your knee,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the mess of white lines and scar tissue there.

“Oh, that big one.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair until it almost stood on end. “You don’t want to hear that story.”

I smoothed his hair down, petting and patting it back into shape. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“Surgery. Blew out my knee. You hungry? I’m hungry.” He lifted me off his lap with one mighty bicep, his strength unfathomable, and climbed out of bed. He seemed uncomfortable.

“How’d you blow out your knee?” I asked, lying back against the pillows as he started to get dressed. He looked around the room, spied a pair of jeans thrown across a wing chair (I’d thrown them there last night in an effort to get at the goods), and he stabbed his legs into them quickly.

“In a game. No big deal, shit happens. I’m gonna go put on the coffee; come on down when you’re ready.” He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead, then left, pulling on a T-shirt as he went.

Huh. Snuggled under the still-warm covers, I wondered what in hell had just happened. I could hear him banging away down in the kitchen. Coffee grinder, water running, cups clinking.

I slipped into one of his T-shirts and found a pair of heavy woolen socks that I could pull up over my knees. The floor was chilly, and as I peeked out of the window over the bed, I saw a thick layer of frost across everything. Fall was most decidedly here, and winter was not far off.

A match scraping on sandpaper told me he was firing up the old Franklin stove in the kitchen, and I knew it’d be warm down there soon. After sweeping my hair up into two pigtails, I headed down the back stairs that led into the kitchen.

“So, what kind of game?” I asked, watching him taking out what looked like everything from the fridge at once.

“Eggs okay with you? I can make toast,” he said, juggling a package of bacon, a carton of eggs, and some potatoes.

“Eggs are fine. What kind of game?” I asked, tugging at my shirt to pull it down a little lower.

“Football,” he said, his face hidden from me in the pantry. “Do you know how to make biscuits?”

Football—of course. A bunch of pieces clicked into place. The physique. The coaching. The scars. The smashed knuckles. The overall beefiness.

“You played football? For how long?” I asked, sitting down on a step, tucking my legs up under my chin.

“Forever. Biscuits?” He looked at me over a bag of flour.

“Hmm?”

“Biscuits. Know how to make them?”

“Hell no. I’d scorch the earth if I tried to cook something.”

“I thought you went to culinary school with Roxie.”

I snorted, resting my chin in my hands. “Sadly, going to culinary school and being good at culinary school are not the same thing. Ask Roxie to tell you about the time I burned water.”

“You can’t cook? Like, at all?” he asked, assembling everything on the counter.

“No, not all women can cook, you know,” I replied, arching my eyebrow toward him. He didn’t respond, too busy beating up on some eggs. “Do you get the Times?”

“Should be on the front porch. I think I heard it hit the door earlier.”

I stood up, brushing off my behind. He whistled at me, and I flashed him as I walked away. Was it a coincidence that I heard what sounded like six eggs cracking all at once? Or was my ass just that sweet?

I peeped through the lace curtains on the front door, and did indeed spy the Sunday Times sitting on the welcome mat. Wincing at the sudden guilt that washed over me that I wasn’t at brunch (well played, Ma, I’m ninety miles away), I wrapped a throw blanket around my shoulders and darted outside to snatch it up. Brrrr, it was really cold this morning! Seeing my breath puff all around me as I bent down, I almost didn’t see the basket by the front door, with a red-and-white-checked cloth tucked in and a note addressed to Oscar. Grabbing the basket and the paper, I headed back in.