Of course, the swift reversal of his mood from concern to testiness might have had something to do with the highly charged atmosphere between them. Even she had to admit that it was incredibly disconcerting to keep tripping over their physical attraction. She had not been immune to the flying sparks just now. Her own pulse was just beginning to settle back into its normal rhythm.
Well, there was nothing to be done about that except to ignore it. They simply couldn’t allow another quiet, intimate moment like last night’s to occur. Of course, if this morning was any indication, perhaps they shouldn’t be together in the same room—even in broad daylight. If Paul truly felt that uncomfortable in her presence, then maybe he should consider moving downstairs.
That decided, she put on her jeans and a soft rose-colored sweater before venturing into the kitchen to make coffee. She heard Paul swearing in the bathroom. When he threw open the door and caught sight of her at the stove, he just glared and stomped on past. Moments later she heard the front door slam.
“I guess he doesn’t want breakfast,” she muttered, searching through the refrigerator for something edible. She poked at a loaf of bread that was definitely past its prime. There was a package of luncheon meat that had dried out and curled on the edges. In fact, the only thing that appeared to have been purchased more recently than the Stone Age was a bottle of catsup. She sighed and settled for the coffee.
Paul returned before she’d taken the first sip of her coffee. He was carrying the Sunday paper and a bag, which he dropped on the orange crate. “Bagels,” he announced abruptly. “If you want one.”
“Thank you.”
“Any coffee left?”
“On the stove.”
“Thank you. Do you want any more while I’m getting it?”
“No, thank you.”
The politeness was beginning to grate on her nerves. She grabbed the front section of the paper and hid behind it. Bad as they were, the headlines were less depressing than the awkward wariness between the two of them.
Still, when Paul returned, she said politely, “Did you want to see the front section of the paper?”
“No. I’ll read the sports section first.”
“Fine.” When she’d finished, she reached for the rest of the paper. Her hand collided with Paul’s. Startled, they both looked up as if they’d made contact with a live electrical wire. “Sorry,” they said simultaneously.
Gabrielle wondered if all relationships went through cold wars like this, wars that erupted for no apparent reason and sizzled with tension. She opened her mouth to force a confrontation, but Paul’s forbidding expression silenced her. Now wasn’t the time. Instead she got to her feet, took her dishes into the kitchen and washed them. As she was heading back to her room, Paul called to her. She walked to the doorway.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier.”
“No problem,” she said. When he turned back to the paper, obviously satisfied that the matter was concluded, she went on down the hall, torn between puzzlement and irritation. The apology had acknowledged the situation, but it certainly hadn’t resolved it. Her own failure to pursue the matter was an indication of how thoroughly out of her element she felt.
As the morning went on, Paul’s mood didn’t improve, though eventually he did come down the hall to help her move the furniture back into place and sweep up the shards of glass. As they worked they exchanged a minimum of conversation, all of it exceedingly polite. When they’d finished, he pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked, then remembered it was none of her business. “I just meant in case someone calls.”
“I’m going to get new glass for the window.”
“Then let me give you some money.”
“I broke it. I’ll pay for it.”
“You broke it on my account.”
“Forget it, Gaby. Just sit down and relax. Read the paper or something.”
“What about groceries?”
“What abut them?”
“Shouldn’t we go to the store today? Or would you rather I go alone?”
He sighed heavily. “Get your coat. We might as well go now.”
She opened her mouth to remind him that they hadn’t made a list, then clamped it shut again. If they forgot something, they’d get it later. In his present mood Paul was unlikely to want to discuss the relative merits of green beans versus broccoli before he’d even reached the produce section.
At the store Paul grabbed a shopping cart and steered it deftly through the narrow, crowded aisles to the dairy case on the far side of the store. “We’ll work our way back.”
“But we should do this last,” she protested.
“Why?”
“It’ll spoil.”
“Not unless it takes you all afternoon to shop.”
She glared at him. “Okay. Fine. What do you want?” she said as she grabbed a package of butter and a triangle of Brie. He picked up a block of cheddar cheese and a tub of margarine.
“Eggs?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She reached for brown eggs. He shook his head adamantly. “Eggs are supposed to be white.”
“You don’t eat the shells,” she reminded him. “What’s the difference?”
“If there’s no difference, then you might as well get the white ones.”
She picked up a half dozen of each, then stalked off to the cereal section. She had a box of oat bran in her hands when Paul arrived with the cart.
“What’s that?” he inquired suspiciously.
“Oat bran. It’s good for your cholesterol.”
“I eat cornflakes.”
“Can’t you just try this?”
“I have always eaten cornflakes.”
Gabrielle threw up her hands in resignation. “Fine. If this is some nostalgic thing for you, we’ll get cornflakes.”
Suddenly his lips twitched. She felt the first tiny break in the tension.
“I suppose you have a thing about bread, too.” She recalled that the
