Judging from the dangerous glint in Fox’s eyes, you’d think she’d put on major war paint.
She led him toward the kitchen, musing that shehad strategized a major war effort tonight. From her clothes to the setting, she’d wanted to create something that would startle him—because she had really, really doubted he intended to show up today.
Something had been seriously wrong when he left two days ago. She didn’t know what, but in the space of a short conversation, Fergus had changed from a recovering, functioning, whole-hearted guy back into a taciturn shadow again. When he’d left, she’d desperately wanted to chase after him and confront Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
whatever was wrong—but she’d had the baby to take care of. Besides which, she’d realized joltingly that she had no right to chase after him—that she had no personal right to care about Fergus.
Tonight, though, she’d convinced herself that her strategic choices were all strictly professional. His recovery was her business, right? So if she chose to wear a snuggly black sweater and if it happened to catch his attention—as long as it was for a professional reason, that was okay.
He asked about Manuel, and they chatted a few minutes about the baby and how her work was going.
Since he was only planning to stay for the usual two-hour session, though, she needed to hustle the dinner along, and motioned him to sit down. “I have another exercise for you to try today.”
“Oh, yeah?” He didn’t seem to notice the candles, the linen, the setting she’d worked so hard on. The darn man hadn’t taken his eyes off her yet. It was downright distracting. “What are those smells?”
“Dinner.”
“Dinner wasn’t part of the deal,” he said.
“It is today. Anything’s part of the deal that puts you on a healing track, cookie.”
“Cookie?” He almost choked on the teasing endearment, but she just chuckled—and put on oven gloves. Her scarred relic of a kitchen table had been covered with an elegant navy blue tablecloth—alias a bedsheet. She’d dimmed the lights, set up a centerpiece of melon-, peach- and strawberry-scented candles. Scraps of navy velvet ribbon tied the silverware, since she didn’t own real napkin holders.
The menu was far from gourmet. Hot buttered, homemade bread. The potato dish everybody made for holidays with sour cream and corn flakes and cheddar cheese. Chicken rubbed with fresh cilantro and island pepper. Fresh cherries and blueberries, and eventually, a marshmallow sundae with double-chocolate ice cream. All easy, basic stuff. All comfort food.
Fox, though, raised an eyebrow as more bowls and plates showed up on the table. “What is this?”
“Like I said—just dinner.”
“This is ‘just dinner’ like a diamond is ‘just a stone.’ You think I can’t tell when a woman’s determined to seduce me?”
“What?” She dropped a hot pad. Then a fork.
“Give me a break. You know what the smell of homemade bread does to a guy’s hormones, don’t you?”
He was teasing with her. Flirting. Her heart soared a few thousand feet—not because he made her feel mooshy inside, but because, darn it, all the risks she’d taken for him really were paying off. For him, if not for her. Even a few weeks ago, he’d still been locking himself in a dark room, unwilling to be around people and, for darn sure, stingy with his smiles.
“The homemade bread was about motivating your hunger,” she insisted.
“That’s exactly what I said. That the smell of homemade bread is a foolproof way to motivate hunger in a guy. Better than just about anything on earth—give or take that sweater you’re wearing.”
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“It’s just a sweater, Fox! I—” The cell phone chimed, forcing her to peel off an oven glove to answer it.
It was her mom, and because it was an unusual time for her mother to call, she motioned to Fox that she’d just be a few seconds, and continued bringing on the food. “There’s nothing wrong is there, Mom?
You’re okay? Dad’s okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” Her mother’s magnolia-sweet voice was a little too careful, but Phoebe swiftly learned why. “I just wanted to tell you something, honey. I saw in the paper tonight that Alan’s getting married. I know you two are long over, but I just didn’t want any stranger springing the news on you.…”
The chicken was going to dry out if she didn’t get the dinner served, so she promised to call her mom later and hung up as quickly as she could, then hustled to sit across from Fox.
“Sorry about the interruption,” she said with a smile. “I talk to my mom a few times a week, but we still never seem to be able to have a short conversation.”
“She said something that bothered you?”
“Oh, no. Everything’s fine.”
“She must have said something or told you something—”
To ward off another direct question, Phoebe served potatoes—no man alive so far had ever resisted those potatoes—and freely offered him some of her family background. “My dad and mom are both from Asheville. Dad’s an anesthesiologist. My mom always claimed it was a good thing he made good money, because she was too lazy to work—but that was a complete fib. She’s a hard-core volunteerer.
Works with sick kids at the hospital. And troubled teenagers at a runaway place. And she’s on the board of directors for an adoption agency. She never stops running.… She also paints.”
“So that’s where all these colors come from?” He motioned around her house.
“Oh, yeah. Mom definitely taught me not to be afraid of color.”
“You sound pretty close.”
“Couldn’t be closer. Same for my dad.”
“So what’d she say that bugged you?”
Her smile dipped, but only for a second. “Fox,” she said firmly, “this is about you. Your time, your dollar. I don’t mind talking about myself, but not when we’re working together.” She glanced at his plate, though, and realized he was
