glance at the clock on the wall told him it was six and time for the dinner Joy had promised. Well, he was in no mood for company. He came and went when he liked and just because his temporary housekeeper made dinner didn’t mean he had to show up. He scowled, then deliberately, he picked up the sander again and turned his focus to the wood. Sanding over the last coat of stain and varnish was meticulous work. He could laser in on the task at hand and hope it would be enough to ease the tension rippling through him.
It was late by the time he finally forced himself to stop working for the day. Darkness was absolute as he closed up the shop and headed for the house. He paused in the cold to glance up at the cloud-covered sky and wondered when the snow would start. Then he shifted his gaze to the house where a single light burned softly against the dark. He’d avoided the house until he was sure the woman and her daughter would be locked away in Kaye’s rooms. For a second, he felt a sting of guilt for blowing off whatever dinner it was she’d made. Then again, he hadn’t asked her to cook, had he? Hell, he hadn’t even wanted her to stay. Yet somehow, she was.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d deal with her and lay out a few rules. If she was going to stay then she had to understand that it was the house she was supposed to take care of. Not him. Except for cooking—which he would eat whenever he damn well pleased—he didn’t want to see her. For now, he wanted a shower and a sandwich. He was prepared for a can of soup and some grilled cheese.
Later, Sam told himself he should have known better. He opened the kitchen door and stopped in the doorway. Joy was sitting at the table with a glass of wine in front of her and turned her head to look at him when he walked in. “You’re late.”
That niggle of guilt popped up again and was just as quickly squashed. He closed and locked the door behind him. “I don’t punch a clock.”
“I don’t expect you to. But when we say dinner’s at six, it’d be nice if you showed up.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s just me, but most people would call that ‘polite.’”
The light over the stove was the only illumination and in the dimness, he saw her eyes, locked on him, the soft blond curls falling about her face. Most women he knew would have been furious with him for missing a dinner after he’d agreed to be there. But she wasn’t angry, and that made him feel the twinge of guilt even deeper than he might have otherwise. But at the bottom of it, he didn’t answer to her and it was just as well she learned that early on.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got involved with a project and forgot the time.” A polite lie that would go down better than admitting I was avoiding you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix myself something.”
“No you won’t.” She got up and walked to the oven. “I’ve kept it on warm. Why don’t you wash up and have dinner?”
He wanted to say no. But damned if whatever she’d made didn’t smell amazing. His stomach overruled his head and Sam surrendered. He washed his hands at the sink then sat down opposite her spot at the table.
“Did you want a glass of your wine?” she asked. “It’s really good.”
One eyebrow lifted. Wryly, he said, “Glad you approve.”
“Oh, I like wine,” she said, disregarding his tone. “Nothing better than ending your day with a glass and just relaxing before bed.”
Bed. Not a word he should be thinking about when she was so close and looking so...edible. “Yeah. I’ll get a beer.”
“I’ll get it,” she said, as she set a plate of pasta in a thick red meat sauce in front of him.
The scent of it wafted to him and Sam nearly groaned. “What is that?”
“Baked mostaccioli with mozzarella and parmesan in my grandmother’s meat sauce.” She opened the fridge, grabbed a beer then walked back to the table. Handing it to him, she sat down, picked up her wineglass and had a sip.
“It smells great,” he said grudgingly.
“Tastes even better,” she assured him. Drawing one knee up, she propped her foot on her chair and looked at him. “Just so you know, I won’t be waiting on you every night. I mean getting you a beer and stuff.”
He snorted. “I’ll make a note.”
Then Sam took a bite and sighed. Whatever else Joy Curran was, the woman could cook. Whatever they had to talk about could wait, he thought, while he concentrated on the unexpected prize of a really great meal. So he said nothing else for a few bites, but finally sat back, took a drink of his beer and looked at her.
“Good?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Great.”
She smiled and her face just—lit up. Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he looked at her. That flash of something hot, something staggering, hit him again and he desperately tried to fight it off. Even while that strong buzz swept through him, remnants of the phone call with his mother rose up in his mind and he wondered if Joy had been in on whatever his mother and Kaye had cooking between them.
Made sense, didn’t it? Young, pretty woman. Single mother. Why not try to find a rich husband?
Speculatively, he looked at her and saw sharp blue eyes without the slightest hint of guile. So maybe she wasn’t in on it. He’d reserve judgment. For now. But whether she was or not, he had to set down some rules. If they were going to be living together for the next month, better that they both knew where they stood.
And, as he took another bite of her spectacular pasta, he admitted that he was going to let her stay—if only for the sake of his stomach.
“Okay,” he said in between bites, “you can stay for the month.”
She grinned at him and took another sip of her wine to celebrate. “That’s great, thanks. Although, I wasn’t really going to leave.”
Amused, he picked up his beer. “Is that right?”
“It is.” She nodded sharply. “You should know that I’m pretty stubborn when I want something, and I really wanted to stay here for the month.”
He leaned back in his chair. The pale wash of the stove light reached across the room to spill across her, making that blond hair shine and her eyes gleam with amusement and determination. The house was quiet, and the darkness crouched just outside the window made the light and warmth inside seem almost intimate. Not a word he wanted to think about at the moment.
“Can you imagine trying to keep a five-year-old entertained in a tiny hotel room for a month?” She shivered and shook her head. “Besides being a living nightmare for me, it wouldn’t be fair to Holly. Kids need room to run. Play.”
He remembered. A succession of images flashed across his mind before he could stop them. As if the memories had been crouched in a corner, just waiting for the chance to escape, he saw pictures of another child. Running. Laughing. Brown eyes shining as he looked over his shoulder and—
Sam’s grip on the beer bottle tightened until a part of him wondered why it didn’t simply shatter in his hand. The images in his mind blurred, as if fingers of fog were reaching for them, dragging them back into the past where they belonged. Taking a slow, deep breath, he lifted the beer for a sip and swallowed the pain with it.
“Besides,”
