Ruth checked the table for the fifth time in as many minutes. She nudged one of the forks a touch closer to its plate. Scooted the bread basket sitting in the center of the table a hair to the left. Smoothed the fabric of her second-best shirtwaist and tried not to wish she had something prettier to wear.
Bo was used to elegant ladies. Society ladies. She glanced at the café stove, where her fricasseed chicken over rice sat in the warming oven, green beans in one pot, skillet gravy in another. He was used to fancy chefs and fine dining too. What had she been thinking, inviting him to dinner? She couldn’t possibly impress him with her ordinary offerings.
Was that what she was trying to do? Impress him? Her stomach fluttered at the inescapable answer. She laid a hand on her abdomen to still the sensation.
Good heavens. She was actually trying to impress a man. She hadn’t gone to such lengths for anyone but Stephen, and even then, she and her late husband had grown up together, so there had never really been a need to gain his attention. They had just transitioned from playmates to sweethearts with the passing of time.
Her attraction to Beauregard Azlin had snuck up on her without warning. In a single day, through a series of remarkable kindnesses, he had gone from a man who stirred her curiosity to a man she admired with such esteem that she actively sought ways to spend time with him.
She waited for the guilt to hit, for a sense of disloyalty to Stephen, but beyond a bittersweet twinge of residual grief, nothing reared its head to torment her. Nothing but the fluttering in her stomach that had spread to her chest, her heart now beating an erratic rhythm and threatening to throw her breathing into disarray.
Stop fretting like a ninny and do something.
Ruth marched over to the stove, grabbed a slotted spoon, lifted the lid on the first pot she came to, and stirred the beans. Then she pried back the coffeepot lid and gave it a sniff. Yep, it still smelled like coffee. The contents hadn’t changed to tea while she’d been woolgathering. She shook her head at her foolishness and had just grabbed the gravy spoon when Naomi threw the back door wide.
“He’s coming!”
Thank heavens. She was running out of things to stir.
Setting the spoon aside, Ruth reached behind her back to untie the apron she’d left on until the last possible moment. She handed it to Naomi to hang on the hook, as was their usual habit at the close of day, then patted her hair to ensure all her pins remained in place.
“You look pretty, Mama.” Naomi grinned at her, and the knot in Ruth’s belly loosened just a tad.
“She certainly does,” a male voice echoed, and that knot immediately tightened back up.
Heat that had nothing to do with the stove flushed Ruth’s cheeks as she lifted her eyes to greet their guest. “Mr. Azlin. I’m so glad you could join us. Please, come in.” She gestured, and he crossed the threshold. The room immediately felt smaller. More intimate, leaving her nowhere to hide. “May I . . . take your hat?”
“Only if you call me Bo for the remainder of the evening.”
Gracious. Who knew the stern businessman could be such a charmer? Smiling and flirting. Her stomach would never settle at this rate. “All right.” Her voice didn’t quiver, but her fingers trembled as she reached for his hat. “I hope you like chicken . . . Bo.”
His blue eyes lit up when she said his name. How had she ever thought them icy? They might be pale in color, but they had the richness of a blueberry compote—warm, sweet, and rather addictive.
“Love it.”
It took her a moment to recall that they were discussing chicken and not his eyes. She smiled, then retreated behind the most comfortable presence in the room. “Naomi, would you show our guest to his seat?”
“Sure!” Without an ounce of the shyness afflicting her mother, Naomi bounded forward, grabbed Bo’s good hand, and dragged him toward the table. “Mama and I usually just sit at the work table when we eat supper after the café closes, but we wanted tonight to be special, so we carried in one of the tables from the main dining room. It was a little tricky getting it through the doorway,” she jabbered, “but we turned it on its side and squeezed it through.”
“I’m impressed,” Bo said, giving his full attention to Naomi, seeming to actually care about what she was saying. Ruth’s heart warmed a little more. He was good with her. Not just in emergencies, but in the little things—the things that made the biggest difference in the long run.
She hung his hat from the same hook that held her apron, rather liking the sight of the two items together, then retrieved the chicken from the warming oven and moved to serve.
Bo stood as she approached, but she motioned him back down. “Please. No need for formality.”
“’Cause we’re all friends. Right, Mr. Bo?” Naomi bounced in her chair, her face glowing with admiration for the man taking his seat beside her.
His eyes lingered on Ruth for a long heartbeat, then swiveled to her daughter. “Right, tadpole.”
“Tadpole?” Ruth queried as she dished out a healthy portion of chicken and rice onto Bo’s plate.
He reddened slightly. An adorable effect on one so starched and proper.
“It’s ’cause I fell in the pond,” Naomi announced, pride lacing her words. “Isn’t it great?” She beamed, her adoration of her rescuer obvious. Bo probably could have dubbed her goose liver, and she would have been equally pleased.
Ruth spooned a much smaller portion onto her daughter’s plate. “It fits you perfectly, with all your squirming. Sit still in your chair, please, young lady.”
Naomi darted a sideways glance at Bo, mouthed something that looked like wiggle worm, stifled a giggle, then straightened in her seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
With Naomi’s chatter serving as a buffer, Ruth eventually relaxed and enjoyed the evening. Bo complimented her cooking and ate every bite she placed before him, including two thick slices of chocolate cake—he apparently had a sizeable sweet tooth. He even dragged the table back to the dining room for her while she washed the dishes, a notable accomplishment for a man with only one good arm. He credited his young assistant for their success, claiming her steering of the table legs made all the difference as he navigated the doorway, but Ruth knew he was being modest.
Mostly because she’d been watching him out of the corner of her eye. It was hard not to appreciate such a masculine display.
Afterward, he lingered in the kitchen as if waiting for something. What, she wasn’t quite sure. But she wasn’t about to shoo him away, not when she enjoyed his company so much. But once all the food was stored and the dishes were back in the cabinets, she had no reason to delay bringing the evening to a close.
She retrieved his hat and handed it over with regret. “Thank you for joining us tonight.”
His fingers brushed hers beneath the brim. An accident, or had it been intentional? Heavens, but she wanted it to be intentional. Even if that made her the biggest fool in Texas.
“I had a most enjoyable evening.” He glanced down at his shoes, then slowly cranked his chin back up to meet her gaze. “May I have the honor of walking you ladies home?”
Ruth’s heart pounded as a shy smile curved her mouth. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
By the time Ruth closed up the café, Naomi had claimed Bo’s good hand and was already dragging him around the building toward the main road with some excuse about wanting to see if Teddy was about. He allowed Naomi to lead him away, a grin of pleasure softening his features as he cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder.
Ruth didn’t mind. Not really.
All right, maybe a little.
It didn’t seem very mature to be jealous of her seven-year-old daughter monopolizing the attention of the man she had just cooked and, yes, primped for, but the twinges in her chest could be explained no other way. Perhaps she should be alarmed by how quickly Naomi was growing attached to Bo, but Ruth’s practical nature shoved the worry aside. After losing her father, Naomi needed a positive male influence in her life, and the more Ruth learned about Beauregard Azlin, the more positive attributes she uncovered. Besides, trying to protect Naomi from the pain of loss should Bo grow weary of his friendship with a child would only steal the girl’s current joy. Pain might come later; it might not. Life held no guarantees, a fact of which both Ruth and her daughter were acutely aware. So when friendship or the hint of something more presented itself, one faced two options—either hide away from the possibility of pain or stride forward with the hope of discovering joy.
Ruth had always been more of a strider than a hider. Which was why she quickened her pace to catch up to Bo as he chatted with her daughter about cats and their penchant for tree climbing, then slipped her left hand into the crook of his right arm.
His face jerked toward her, his eyebrows shooting upward. Did no one ever touch his right arm? Perhaps it caused him discomfort. No, her action had startled him, but she saw no evidence of pain in his face. Perhaps the discomfort belonged to others, people afraid they might somehow catch his affliction. Well, she wasn’t afraid, and he shouldn’t be, either. Not about what others might think when they saw him or about what they might do. He was a good man. A strong man. And she was proud to be on his arm tonight.
She curled her fingers lightly around his bicep to secure her hold and wondered if he could feel her touch. The spark of heat in his eyes said yes. Then he did the most remarkable thing—he squeezed her hand closer to his side. He might not be able to move his right wrist or hand, but he could move his upper arm. At least a little.
His lips curved into a smile that sported none of the playfulness or indulgence he’d showered on Naomi. No, this smile exuded something much warmer and masculine, the kind of smile a man gave a woman whose company he found pleasing.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She returned his smile in equal measure. “We shall.”