The Obsession(47)

If a woman didn’t have sweet dreams in a bed like that, she needed therapy.

“You okay, ma’am?”

She managed to nod. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Josh. Josh and Chuck.”

“Josh. I’m fine. You were right. It’s a hell of a bed.”

When they were done, she tipped them generously—the least she could do—and gave them more soft drinks for the road.

When they left, she stood staring at the bed, at the way the early-evening light gleamed on the wood, on the details.

“Some uncles you’ve got,” Xander commented.

“Best ever.”

“Need to cry it out?”

She shook her head, pressed fingers to her eyes. “No. I hate to cry. So useless. I talked to them Sunday. They went right out and found this, then had it shipped all the way out here this way—along with sheets and pillows and bedding. And it’s just right, just exactly right. For me, for the room, for the house.”

She pushed the threat of tears away. “I’m not going to cry. I’m going to cook. I still don’t have dishes or a table. But you can eat what I fix on paper plates outside on the deck. That’s your tip for helping set up the bed.”

“I’ll take it. What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m having wine. I’m feeling sentimental and a little homesick.”

“Got beer?”

“Pretty sure.”

“If you do, I’ll go for that.”

“Okay.” She started out, glanced back at him. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

“Yet.” His smile was easy. And dangerous. “Beer and a dinner’s a start.”

A finish, she thought as the dog trooped down with them.

—

He watched her cook. He’d never seen anybody cook by grabbing things, throwing this thing in a pan, that thing in a skillet. Chopping this up, stirring that in.

The dog watched her, too, and wasn’t subtle about licking his muzzle when the scents started rising.

“What are you making there?”

“We’ll call it Pasta on the Fly.”

She laid olives—fat ones—on a cutting board, smacked them with a flat of the knife she’d been wielding, and popped out the pits. Something else he’d never seen anyone do.

“Don’t those just come in jars without pits?”

“These are Kalamata olives, friend, and they’re worth the extra step. Anything I put in here you don’t like, you eat around.”

“I’m not fussy.”

“Good thing.”

Now she took a hunk of cheese and worked it to a blur over a grater. He’d have asked why she didn’t buy it already grated but figured he knew the answer.

She tossed little tomatoes in the pan, added some sort of herbs, and stirred—even while muttering how she wished the local produce ran to fresh basil.

“I need to get good cookware before Harry sends me that, too.”

“What’s wrong with what you’ve got? Looks like it’s working fine to me.”

“Hardware store special. He’d be appalled. I’m a little appalled myself, actually. And I definitely need good knives. Something to add to the list.”

He liked watching her—quick, sure movement. Liked listening to her—a voice that held just the right amount of smoke.

“What else is on the list?”

“Painting the guest rooms I have earmarked for my brother and for my uncles. The one for my grandparents. After that, I think I’ll retire my roller and pan. I don’t like painting.”

“Have the painters paint.”

“I need to buy decent cookware and knives—I can paint two more rooms in this ridiculously big house. And now I have to find furniture worthy of that bed, and so on.”

She drained the pasta—the little tube sort—then added it to the skillet, along with the olives, the cheese. Tossed it all around.

“Plates are in that cupboard there, such as they are, as are paper napkins and a box of plastic forks.”

“Got it.”

She tossed the stuff in the skillet a couple more times, then served it up on the paper plates and added wedges of Italian bread that she’d slathered with butter, sprinkled with herbs, and toasted.

“That looks amazing.”

“It would look better on the plates I ordered, but it’s good enough.” She handed him a plate, took one for herself, and then led the way out. Then she handed him her plate. “Hold this while I feed the dog.”

The dog looked at the kibble she dumped in his bowl, then back at Xander with the two aromatic plates of pasta. His tail drooped, and Xander swore the dog sighed in disappointment.

She sat, eyeing the dog, who eyed her. “This is mine, that’s yours. That’s how it goes.”

“Hard-ass.”

“Maybe.”

Xander sat down and sampled what she’d thrown together magically and a little maniacally in about twenty minutes.

“This is really good. Seriously good.”

“It’s not bad. It’d be better with fresh herbs. I guess I’ll have to plant some.”

It didn’t feel as odd as she’d expected, to sit there, eating pasta with him while the dog—who’d polished off his own bowl—watched them mournfully. Maybe it was the view—that soft hand of dusk gliding pale and purple over water and the green—maybe it was the wine. Either way, she needed to set the line.