morning-overcooked oatmeal. She flopped back on the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin, prepared to resume sleep. She spoke with her eyes closed. “Did you wake me up just to harangue me?”
“No, I was hoping for a black eye.”
She curled into a fetal position. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Kat?”
The laughter in his voice irritated her.
“What?”
“Today’s Monday.”
“Thank you. I’ll sleep better knowing that.”
Within a matter of seconds, the implication penetrated her brain. She threw off the sheet and leaped from the bed, yanking down the hem of her T-shirt. “Monday. It’s Monday. Mrs. Fitzwillie!” Kat raked her hands through her hair.
Andrew glanced at the bedside clock. “That’s it. Our first audience arrives in about ten minutes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she accused as she scrambled for the bathroom.
“That just happened to be the pillow talk you heard.”
Kat, incapable of a witty rejoinder at 6:50 a.m., contented herself with slamming the door on his smug, albeit swollen-eyed, countenance.
“YOU SHOULD’VE ICED your eye while I was in the shower. It would have helped the swelling.”
Andrew had never sported a black eye before. Although it hurt like the devil, he rather liked it. Stuffy guys didn’t walk around with black eyes. Not that he’d confess his surprising pride to his wife.
He opened the bedroom door and waited for Kat to precede him into the hallway. “And deprive my loving wife the opportunity to tend to my wound? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She snorted as he fell into step beside her. “Keep it up-there’s still that other eye you mentioned.”
Eight minutes flat. That’s how long she’d taken to pull herself together. Despite the frown tugging between her red brows, he realized his initial assessment of Kat had been wrong. He’d thought her plain. Actually, she enchanted him.
He laughed. “Has anyone ever mentioned you’re not a morning person?”
Andrew heard Mrs. Fitzwillie humming in the kitchen.
“Not and lived to tell about it.” She tilted her head coquettishly. “If you’d really wanted to play the loving husband, you’d have brought me a cup of coffee to wake up to-not sneaked up on me.”
The humming ceased.
He slipped his arm around Kat’s waist, pulling her to his side. He’d memorized every curve in the past two nights-intimately and with great satisfaction. Those curves tantalized him now. Soft and full and womanly. What had previously appealed to him in Claudia’s race-horse lines?
“Ah, honey, I love it when you say those sweet things to me.” His tone deliberately caressed for the benefit of Mrs. Fitzwillie.
Stopping in the kitchen doorway, he nuzzled the top of her head, his black eye turned away from Mrs. Fitzwillie. Kat smelled like bottled sunshine-clean and fresh.
Mrs. Fitzwillie beamed at the two of them from across the room.
Still averting his shiner, Andrew introduced the two women.
Kat disentangled herself and stepped forward to greet Mrs. Fitzwillie. “I’m delighted to finally meet you. Drew’s spoken so highly of you.”
Andrew blanched at the nickname, sure she’d used it deliberately. He moved toward the coffeepot. The quicker she got a cup, the better.
Mrs. Fitzwillie focused on Kat. “Oh, I just couldn’t believe it when the dear boy called me with the news.” Kat speared him a questioning glance over Mrs. Fitzwillie’s shoulder and he shrugged.
He’d phoned Mrs. Fitzwillie with the news because she deserved to find out from him, not read it in some newspaper.
“He’s been lonely so long. I’d almost given up hope. But now you’ve captured his heart.” She stared deep into Kat’s eyes and nodded, apparently satisfied. “I can see why.”
Andrew realized with startling clarity that he
He pressed a steaming mug of coffee into Kat’s hand. “We’re fresh out of IVs today. This’ll have to do.”
“Thanks, Muffin.”
Drew, he could stomach.
Mrs. Fitzwillie turned, took one look at him and screamed, clutching her chest. “Dear boy! What in the world happened to you?”
Andrew juggled his cup at her shriek. Occasionally he forgot Mrs. Fitzwillie’s affinity for melodrama.
Kat jumped in with a mischievous smile. “I’m afraid it happened this morning in bed.”
The little vixen, heaping fuel on Mrs. Fitzwillie’s fire.
Sure enough, Mrs. Fitzwillie’s imagination kicked in. “Goodness. My Burt and I used to have quite the frolicking time but never a black eye. My goodness.”
Mustering what he hoped was an I’m-so-in-love look, he gazed up at Kat. “You were just about to fetch some ice for it, weren’t you, Bunny?” He all but grinned at the grudging admiration that flickered in her eyes.
“I’ll hop right to it.” Kat filled a sandwich bag with ice, wrapped it in a dish towel and moved to stand behind his chair. With a gentle touch, she held the makeshift ice pack against his swollen eye. The softness of her breast brushed his shoulder and her hip pressed against his arm, giving rise to an ache an ice pack wouldn’t assuage.
Abruptly, Mrs. Fitzwillie threw open the kitchen door. “Yoo-hoo. Anton, come meet the new missus,” she bellowed at the top of her lungs.
Kat nearly jumped out of her skin, jamming the hard ice against his tender eye. Andrew stifled a yelp of pain. He vowed to avoid Kat around kitchen knives and power tools. The woman was dangerous.
“Sorry,” Mrs. Fitzwillie said. “Anton’s close to deaf.”
The weathered, slight man ambled across the patio and entered the kitchen. Andrew settled into the background. Mrs. Fitzwillie clearly itched to handle the introductions. She dragged the wizened man across the kitchen.
“Anton, the dear boy got himself married this weekend, and this is Kat, his wife,” Mrs. Fitzwillie boomed. “Kat, meet Anton Brock, master gardener and grounds-keeper.”
Age-opaqued eyes studied her. “You are the one in my shed this weekend? You are responsible for this?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mass of color gracing the patio. Though Andrew had known him for years, Anton’s harsh voice still sounded at odds with his kind face.
Kat fidgeted with the ice pack on his eye. Andrew winced and stilled her hands. “Yes. I’m sorry if I-” she began.
A broad grin split the lines of Anton’s face. “Finally! For years, I try to talk him into a little color here, a little color there, and always ‘No, Anton. Color goes away. Always count on the green.’ Now, after all this time, you bring color.”
Andrew didn’t need his landscaping preference discussed with his wife, especially as if he weren’t present. He tried to quell Anton with a scowl. The man ignored him.
“You don’t mind if I use the potting shed?” Kat smiled with charm.
“No, no! Everything you bring in a pot.” He cast her a sly glance. “Maybe we will put some color in the ground, yes?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Kat glanced at Andrew. “Let’s talk about it later.”
Once again, Andrew felt the odd man out in his own home. He hadn’t planned on Kat turning things upside down this way.
The old man grinned. “I begin the plans now.” He waved a hand at Andrew’s frown. “Simple. A bed here. A bed there.” He turned and hurried toward the potting shed with a bowlegged gait.
