6

 

Dean swiped his sweaty palms down the legs of his jeans. Steam rolled from the skillet of pasta and tomatoes drenched in pesto. The warm herbs filled the kitchen with a pleasing aroma. With a quick stir of the tongs, the tangled noodles knotted with the emotions in his stomach.

He hadn’t cooked since Bethany died. The proof of his rusty skills stained the bottom of his T-shirt. Should he change? He didn’t want to appear overeager. It was just dinner. With a neighbor.

The doorbell bellowed a bass note, and Dean let out the breath he’d been holding. His gorgeous neighbor.

He hadn’t given any woman a second glance since he was forced back into bachelorhood. Much less asked one over for dinner. That bump on the head must’ve destroyed his sanity.

Being with Darcy reminded him of everything he was missing. Things he’d given up. Things that hadn’t crossed his mind in years. Until the last four days. He felt like a leg that had fallen asleep and was beginning to regain feeling. Half dead, half alive. The process brought both relief and pain.

At the moment, he wasn’t sure which of those feelings the gorgeous woman standing on his porch invoked. “Come in.”

Her invited foot crossing the threshold was a giant leap for mankind. On his planet anyway.

“Something smells fantastic.” Darcy passed him a fancy glass plate and slipped out of her gray coat. The static electricity from removing her hat caused a section of her hair to stick to her cheek.

Dean took her coat in his other hand to keep from tucking the strand behind her ear. “What have we here?”

“Chocolate éclairs.” She smoothed her tresses into place.

A perfect complement to dinner—dessert and company. He hung her coat on a peg and ushered her through the door leading from his shop to the rest of the house. His hand trailed down her back, and he winced, jerking away as if he’d touched a hot stove. What was he supposed to do? Say? He’d sat on the sidelines of this game so long, he forgot how to play.

Dean cleared gravel from his throat. “Soda?”

“Sure.”

He placed dessert on the counter, then piled pasta onto two plates, adding a grilled chicken breast to each. Darcy settled at the table with the salad and garlic bread. This whole scenario was surreal. Weird, yet good.

He handed her a soda and sat across from her. “Dig in.”

She looked down at her plate then at him, waiting. Did she want him to say grace? After a moment, she bowed her head. Her closed eyelids twitched. The sight of her praying, unabashed, niggled his gut. He knew his job as a child of God, but he’d retired.

Dean opened his mouth to mutter a quick prayer when her eyes popped open, and she twirled noodles around the tines of her fork. He closed his mouth.

She uttered a soft moan as she chewed.

“Like it?”

Darcy nodded, swallowing. “This is the best dinner I’ve had in a long time. I’m impressed. Is this your specialty, or are you a good cook in general?”

This wasn’t the half of it. He’d done most of the cooking in Boston since Bethany’s job kept her out late into the evenings. “I can cook just about anything.”

And he’d forgotten how good food could be. The frozen dinners and lunchmeat sandwiches that kept him going the past year had instantly lost their appeal. The way Darcy took small, delicate bites and chewed slowly, however, had not.

“Any plans for Christmas?” she asked.

“Not really.” It took every ounce of his patience to get through Christmas dinner with his family last year. He should’ve at least called his in-laws to wish them a happy holiday since it would be the first one without their daughter, but he hadn’t had the courage to do it. He planned to treat the day like any other this year. “You?”

“No. My parents moved to Florida and all my friends back home are married, so they’ll be busy with their own traditions.” The glint in her eyes dimmed. “No worries, though. After my Marie Callender feast, Gomez and I have a date with my towering collection of Christmas comedies.”

Didn’t most women prefer sappy films? “Comedies?”

“I have a whole selection I watch every year: A Christmas Story, Home Alone, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” She scrunched her nose. “I tend to gravitate toward chaos and disaster around the holidays.”

Dean grinned. Disaster did seem to follow her like a hungry dog.

“I avoid movies involving mistletoe and necking couples at all costs. Too depressing. A cat getting electrocuted is much more uplifting.”

Laughter filled his ears. It took a moment for his brain to register that it was coming from him. He hadn’t laughed in…he couldn’t remember how long. It felt good. Real good. He brushed his mouth with a napkin, appreciating the pink tint to her cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled.

The rest of the meal passed in comfortable camaraderie. He savored her company—her odd quirks and outspokenness. She stirred something within him he couldn’t decipher.

Darcy insisted on washing dishes while he put away the leftovers. Their teamwork felt natural. Fear weaved its way into the serene place he’d made for her. They were friends. That’s how it would stay.

“How are your classes going?” He continued the flow of conversation, attempting to ignore the knot in his gut.

She grabbed a dish towel and dried a plate. “Every class is full this week, and the students I couldn’t accommodate are spilling into the next. Lots of women are making wreaths to give away as gifts this year. Online sales are higher than ever. Pretty soon I’ll have to finish unpacking all the boxes in the shed and attic, so I’ll know what to restock.”

She handed him the plate to put away.

The attic. So she hadn’t found it yet. Or if she had, she hadn’t linked it to him. He’d been careful not to leave any clues behind.

“What are you working on?”

The cabinet door creaked when he opened it and slid the plate inside. He noted for the first time how bare it was, holding only a few plates and bowls and two coffee mugs. “I have a customer who brings things in for me to work on now and then. Yesterday, he brought me an antique weather-vane he’d snagged at an estate auction. It’s in pretty bad shape. Tarnished from years in the open elements. Underneath, it’s a beauty, though. Just going to take a lot of work to get it where it needs to be.”

Darcy passed him another plate. “Can I see?” Her delicate brows lifted slightly, and her brown eyes rounded like a child who’d asked their mother for piece of candy.

He closed the cabinet door. “Come on.”

They abandoned the dishes left in the rack, and he led the way to his workshop. He raised the lid from the wooden crate, unearthing the bruised rooster waiting inside.

She knelt to get a better look. “Oh, Dean, you’re right. She is beautiful.”

He ignored the breathy way she said his name. “She? It’s a rooster.”

Her slender fingers grazed the oxidized metal. She threw him a mock scowl. “You do amazing work. I’ve no doubt you can restore him to his original glory.”

A grin curled his lips. This was the second time she’d shown appreciation for his work. It bolstered his ego way too much. “How about dessert?”

In the kitchen, Darcy served him an éclair on a napkin then bit into her own.

The sweet dough melted in Dean’s mouth. “Wow, these are good. What can I possibly bribe you with, so you’ll make these for me on a regular basis?”

She worried her bottom lip. “I’ve a confession to make. I bought them at the bakery.” She scrunched her face. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t bake. Or cook.”

Neither one? Maybe that’s why she was still single. A way to man’s heart and all that. Because from where he was standing, that seemed to be her only downfall. “Don’t like to?”

“I’m terrible at it.”

A drop of cream clung to the dip below her bottom lip. Dean shoved his last bite into his mouth, suppressing his desire to nibble the drop away. What was with him tonight?

She swiped it away with her thumb. Phew!

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“College. I got tired of eating canned soup and Spaghettio’s. One of my roommates was in culinary school, so I learned from watching him.”

“Chef Boyardee and I are best friends.”

“Then you’re hanging out with the wrong crowd. How ’bout I teach you how to cook?”

Pink blossomed her cheeks. “I’d like that. When do we start?”

A warning signal blared through his head. What was he doing? Maybe he could put her off until Christmas. Next year. “Tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be here.”

 

****

 

Darcy removed two glasses from Dean’s kitchen cabinet. The small room forced them to work closely together, and every time he moved, his cologne joined the party, teasing every cell in her body.

He was teaching her how to cook—or at least trying to. She could barely concentrate with him beside her. She loved this new Dean, his smile, his laugh. If anyone would’ve told her this Dean and the Dean she’d met three weeks ago were the same guy, she’d have told them they were nuts.

“You’ll want to turn the chicken now so it doesn’t burn.” His deep voice vibrated her ear.

She gripped the tongs and rotated the sizzling pieces of battered chicken. A pocket of grease burst and shot into the air, splattering across her blouse and face. Darcy squealed. The hot drops stung her nose and cheeks.

“You OK?” Dean wedged his body between her and the stove.

She reached for the dishtowel and blotted her face and chest. “I think so.”

Her blouse wouldn’t be though. Vegetable oil and silk weren’t meant to unite. Oh, well, another casualty of war along with her ruined gloves. She glanced down at her shirt and then at Dean. He was worth it.

“I told you to wear the apron.” He snatched it from the countertop and slipped it over her head. His hands lingered by her collar bones a moment longer than necessary, his gaze fixed on hers. Her blood pressure rocketed. The chicken sizzled.

“I’ll show you the secret to mashed potatoes.” He let go and fetched a block of cream cheese from the fridge.

Who cares about mashed potatoes? His touch made her heart nearly explode.

He motioned her to the mixer with instructions to beat the potatoes until smooth. Dean added the cream cheese, his woodsy scent asphyxiating her senses. Oh, but what a way to go!

He added milk.

“Was fried chicken the first thing you learned how to cook?

“No,” he answered over the loud hum of the mixer. “I should’ve started you with something simpler, but I haven’t had fried chicken in ages, and it sounded good.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

He grinned.

When the food was ready, they piled their plates with Southern cuisine, poured glasses of ice tea—for authenticity—and dined in front of the TV. The intimacy of the night felt very much like a date. Then again, last night had, too. We’re they dating? Stop it, Darcy.

“What holiday mayhem did you bring along tonight?” Dean spooned a bite of macaroni and cheese.

“Elf.”

“Elf?”

“Nothing screams Christmas like a grown man in tights.”

He rolled his eyes.

“It’s a classic.”

“Never seen it.”

“It’s funny. I promise.”

“We’ll see.”

She put the movie in the DVD player. His house was definitely suited for a bachelor. A dark leather couch consumed one wall and recliner, coffee table, and big screen TV swallowed the rest of the room. There were no pictures or knick-knacks, and the place was cleaner than she expected a single man’s home to be.

He complimented her on the meal, though the credit went to him. The low timbre of his laugh, his facial expressions during the movie—especially the part where Buddy the Elf ate maple syrup on his spaghetti—was worth a million ruined silk blouses.

She was falling for this handsome, wounded recluse and had nothing to hold on to. She should keep her feelings platonic, so her heart wouldn’t be devastated when Dean sat her down for the “let’s just be friends” speech. It would undoubtedly come. It always did.

The movie ended. With heavy eyelids, she went to the kitchen to clean up. Dean followed her in, took the dishrag from her hand, and tossed it in the sink. “I’ll clean up. It’s getting late. Go home and get some rest.”

She leaned her hip against the counter. “I’m not tired.” Her mouth opened in a stupid, traitorous yawn.

“Really?”

“Maybe just a little.”

Dean led her to the front door and held up her coat. “Want me to walk you home?”

Darcy slipped her arms inside. “It’s a long way, but I think I can manage.”

He wrapped her pink scarf around her neck. “It’s cold out there.”

He fingered the tassels of the scarf. Stubble lined his jaw, giving him a rugged edge she longed to touch. So close…

He shifted. “I’m busy tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure on Thursday I’ll be in the mood for lasagna.”

His gaze fell to her lips before retracing the path to her eyes. Was she imagining this spark between them? She possessed enough electricity on her end to set the city of Chicago ablaze all over again. “I’ll bring the bread.”