At First Touch (The Malone Brothers) (6 page)

Reagan swore under her breath. He couldn’t quite make out the word, exactly, but thought it sounded familiar. Then she started moving toward the porch, her stick slapping at the ground in angry swipes until she felt the hard-wood planks. Once up the steps, she stomped to the door and unlocked it.

“You can set them on the counter in the kitchen,” she spat.

Eric trotted up the steps and brushed past her. Sitting all of the bags on the granite countertop, he turned to find Reagan still standing by the door. It was still open. A silent invitation for him to leave.

With a hefty sigh, Eric walked to her, and just before he stepped outside, he stopped. Regarded her face, the angry lines around her mouth. He knew she wasn’t specifically angry at him. He was her outlet, probably.

And he was going to work that anger right out of her.

“Thanks for taking me,” she announced again. “I...appreciate it.”

“What time should I be back?” he asked, smiling.

She shook her head and stared off toward the kitchen, aggravated. “Just...come whenever your brother comes.”

Eric’s grin widened. “Do you know how foxy you are when you’re pissed off?”

Reagan’s mouth pulled tight...right over the smile she was trying so hard to keep off her face. “Shut up and leave, will ya?”

Eric’s lips twitched and he leaned closer. God, she was so damn cute. “Please don’t screw up the ingredients.”

“Out!” Reagan barked.

Scooting past her, he stepped outside, and with a final glance over his shoulder, stared at his new neighbor. His old childhood pal.

The hot girl he was determined to make laugh.

Eric stopped at Jep’s truck and glanced over his shoulder, staring at the Quinns’ river house. A slow smile tipped his lips upward. “See ya tonight, Reagan Rose!”

When she didn’t answer, he merely chuckled, put the old truck into Reverse and headed home.

* * *

A
PPARENTLY
, R
EAGAN
DIDN
’
T
know the force she was up against. Yeah, flirting was his character, and all along he’d been telling himself he was just helping out an old childhood pal.

But was he really?

CHAPTER SIX

R
EAGAN
LISTENED
TO
the gravel crunch as Eric drove slowly up the drive.

Since when had he made it his personal mission to drive her crazy?

Standing in the kitchen, the house’s muteness all but consumed her. She strained her ears, trying to listen. To distinguish other sounds. Anything to break the silence.

Light filtered in through the many windows of the river house, causing more shapes of objects to appear in shadowy forms. Reagan strained her eyes as she scanned the counter, and began feeling inside each grocery bag to determine what needed to go into the refrigerator. Milk. Fruit. A package—square, cold, with plastic covering—came to her palm. She squeezed it a few times, trying to figure it out. She sniffed it. Nothing. Perhaps Eric had bought something and had forgotten to take it out of her bag? She sat it in the fridge, then turned to the lower cabinets, opening the one closest to the stove and feeling for a frying pan, a pot and the colander. Setting each atop the stove, Reagan moved along the counter, her hand outstretched, searching for the cutting board. Her fingertips brushed something hard, and then it fell over and crashed to the floor.

“Dammit,” Reagan muttered, and stood still, trying to get her bearings. Easing right, she made her way to the pantry, opened it and found the broom. She began to blindly sweep the area in a wide arc, hoping to get it all. Finished, she inhaled, and continued on with the task of now finding a knife. Dangerous? Yeah, probably so. Hopefully, she’d dice the tomatoes, peppers and onions without chopping off a finger. She’d just go slow. Take it easy.

At the sink, as Reagan washed the vegetables, her thoughts drifted to the morning spent with Eric. She hadn’t meant to sound so...stiff. Unfriendly.
Ungrateful
. She used to never be that way at all. Now? She felt...mad, all the time. Inadequate. The unwanted center of pitied attention. Eric’s personality was opposite of the way she was now. He was so upbeat. Involved. Ridiculously charming. Seemingly carefree. Just like he’d been as a kid. From what she could recall, anyway. It’s not like she and Eric had been as close as Em and Matt. Reagan barely remembered the little brat.

But for some reason, said brat seemed set on involving himself in her new, less-than-desirable blind life.

What was she to do with that?

Shaking her head, she continued on to her task of attempting dinner preparations. Tasks she’d completed in record time before now took her long, tedious minutes. Em had told her the cutting board was behind the mixer on the counter, so she felt her way there and moved her fingers over the cool surface until they brushed the hard metal of the standing mixer. Sliding her hand around she felt the wooden cutting board, and she pulled it out. Feeling for the first bit of vegetable she’d washed, Reagan lifted what she believed was a pepper—smooth and waxy beneath her fingertips—and sniffed it. Definitely a pepper. Now for a sharp knife. Reagan thought about it. Where had her sister said they’d be? She reached into a drawer. One by one she checked through the drawers until she felt the blade of a knife and lifted it out. Examining it carefully, she determined it wasn’t exactly the type of blade she needed, but it’d have to make do.

After what seemed like hours, Reagan completed the chopping of the vegetables. Not before she dropped half of them onto the floor, or knocked them onto the floor with her arm or hand. Finding the sauce—she hoped—Reagan dumped them into the pot, added the vegetables, and felt the burner knob with her fingertips. Hoping the setting was on low, she turned to the task of browning the sausage. Draining it in the colander. Adding it to the sauce. Finally, the entire process was done and the sauce simmered on the stove top.

And then a knock interrupted preparations.

“Reagan? Eric Malone again.” A voice came from the porch. “I uh, came to help. You. With, uh, supper— God it smells good in here.”

Reagan just shook her head. Did he think her totally incompetent? “Come on in.”

The door creaked open, almost before the words even left her mouth, and Eric’s heavy footfalls moved toward her. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I didn’t want to be eating, I don’t know, cardboard and stems—dang, girl. You’ve made a mess in here.”

Reagan’s ears detected laughter in Eric’s voice, and she just sighed. “Yeah, well, help yourself to clean it up.”

“Gladly. Broom?” he asked cheerfully.

“Pantry.”

Instead of the pantry door opening, Reagan saw Eric’s shadow move toward the stove. The metal lid scraped as he removed it. “Hey,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not too shabby, soldier. Tastes even better than it smells.”

A faint smile touched Reagan’s lips. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

Suddenly, Eric’s hands grasped hers. “Digits? Let me examine you.” His thumbs grazed her palms, then each finger. “Nine total. Is that right?”

She shook her head and withdrew her hands. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“Seriously. It’s very good. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

“Why?” Reagan asked. “Because a blind girl can actually still function in the kitchen?”

Eric laughed. “No. That
you
can actually function in the kitchen. Emily told me you hate cooking.”

Reagan shrugged, patting the counter until she found the pepper core, then scooped it in her hand. “
Hate
is a little drastic.
Disinclination
is more accurate.”

“That’s a fancy word for hate, Reagan Rose.” Again, his hand was on hers, prying her fingers open and relieving her of the pepper core. “I’ll get that.” She heard the sound of the core being dropped into the trash can. “Okay, now what?”

Reagan turned and washed her hands, then felt for the towel and dried them. No way was she getting rid of him, so she might as well just roll with it. “I was going to make garlic butter for the bread. You can...chop the salad.”

“Sweet, let’s do it,” he said, a lilt in his voice. “What do you need for the butter besides, well, butter. And garlic?”

“Oregano and basil from the spice cabinet, next to the oven,” Reagan added.

“Copy that,” Eric said cheerfully. A rustling sounded, then he plunked the bottles down on the counter. “Okay, you’re all set.”

They were kind of silent for a while, and although Reagan was concentrating on her butter mixture, the sound of Eric’s low whistling as he chopped the vegetables invaded her thoughts.

Then something soft and cold hit her square on the forehead.

She lifted her face and stared straight ahead. “You did not just throw tomato at me.”

Eric chuckled. “Nope. A grape.”

“Um, why?”

“What happened over there?” he asked. No pause. No hesitation. Just matter-of-fact. “Your accident. I’d like to know, if you don’t mind telling me.”

Reagan went still and set down the wooden spoon she was using. She turned toward Eric. “And you feel you have to start a food fight to ask that?”

Eric sighed. “A food fight involves two people, Reagan, each slinging a—”

A thump against the wall let Reagan know her food missile had totally missed its mark. She didn’t care.

“That was like, wow—three feet away from my head,” Eric informed her. “A clove of garlic? Really, Reagan Rose? And you’re avoiding the question, Quinn. Tell me.”

Reagan sighed, felt for the block of butter and began peeling off the waxy paper cover. “Not much to tell, really. It happened fast. A fuel leak, I was on the tarmac, and a spark. The last thing I saw was a flash of fire, just before fuel spewed all over me and into my eyes.” She inhaled, remembering the day so clearly. “One second I was standing upright, the next I was thrown back from the blast and was out like a light. I woke in the hospital, my head and eyes wrapped in bandages.” She set the butter in the pot and stirred in the garlic. “I remember feeling...suffocated. Later I found out my friend had thrown a tarp over me, to make sure I didn’t flame up.” She gave a short laugh. “And there you have it, Malone. Mystery of the disappearing sight solved.” The slight sizzle of melting butter and garlic rose, and she stirred it with the wooden spoon. She reached for the herbs, but before she could twist the top off the first jar, Eric’s fingers were relieving her of it.

“Why do you brush it off so easily?” he asked.

She couldn’t see him. Just a form, hazy around the edges, almost like someone in a dream. His scent reached her nose, though, and she felt his close proximity. “It is what it is, I guess. No sense in crying about it.”

The sound of metal twisting off glass, and Eric placed the spice bottle back in her hand. “Take a whiff.”

Reagan slowly lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. “Basil.”

“So now what?” he asked. Still close. Still in her space.

“So now...” She shook the jar over the pot of butter. “You add the spices, like this. Not rocket science.”

“You know what I mean,” he corrected. He remained close—she could feel his body heat, and that made her shift where she stood.

She set the jar down, and Eric handed her the next one. Oregano. “Avoiding people and staring at walls in the dark was my main plan. Until you barged in and decided otherwise.”

“Damn straight I did.” He chuckled. “There’ll be no moping around here, Quinn.” A slight punch in her arm knocked her slightly off balance. “Not when there’s so much life to live. Now, as I was saying. What’s next? Any ideas?”

Reagan let out a hefty sigh. She didn’t know how she’d slipped into such an easy conversation with Eric Malone, but she was pretty sure that later on, she’d regret it. She stirred her butter mixture, the scent of Italian spices and garlic rising to her nose. “Still working on that, I guess.”

“Hmm. I saw an ad on Facebook of a photographer who takes shots of wounded veterans. Some even naked.”

Her lip quirked. “I’m not doing a naked wounded-vet photo shoot, Malone.”

“Hey, it’s an idea.” He chuckled again.

“What’s an idea?”

Emily Quinn’s voice sounded from the kitchen archway, and when Reagan set her hazy gaze in that direction, another figure stood behind her sister.

“Reagan here is going to do a naked vet photo shoot,” Eric said cheerfully.

“No, I’m not,” Reagan insisted.

Emily laughed, and her shadowy form moved closer, and her deep inhalation was audible. “Wow, take all the nudie pics you want, sis, as long as you keep cooking like this.” Reagan’s shoulders were suddenly embraced in a fierce hug. “Smells delicious.”

Emily Quinn was a hugger. A big one.

“Hey, Reagan,” Matt’s deep voice rumbled close by. A man of few words to be sure, but when he did speak—in sentences, of course—it was worth listening to. At least, so said her sister.

“Matt,” Reagan answered.

“Can I do anything?” Emily asked.

“Bread?” Reagan replied. “The garlic butter is on the stove top.”

A bustling began in the Quinn kitchen then, and the figures of both Malone boys started shifting back and forth from the cabinets, to the freezer, to the table. Dishes clanked, silverware tinkled and ice dropped from the automatic maker in the fridge door into the glasses. Before long, the table was set, salads were out and a firm, warm hand settled onto the small of her back.

“Sounds like a mess hall, eh?” Eric’s voice brushed over her ear as he led her toward the table. “Your stomach’s growling. Loud.”

Reagan just shook her head, reached for the back of the chair and grasped it with her fingers, then eased herself into the seat.

Before she knew what was happening, her hands were grasped. First by Eric on one side, then Emily.

“Dear Lord, thank you for the food we are about to consume, and for the hands that prepared it. And, I pray, let there be nothing weird mixed within. Amen.”

A smile pulled at Reagan’s mouth.

“Eric, you moron,” Matt said, but there was amusement in his voice. “Reagan, it looks wonderful.”

A slight chuckle sounded beside her as Eric, apparently pleased with his prayer-time jest, lifted Reagan’s plate and served up the pasta. Then, as his shadowy figure moved, he followed suit with his own.

A lot could be said about manners, she supposed. But in the Malone house, there could be nothing less than that. Something else Emily had divulged.

“Thanks,” Reagan said quietly.

“Don’t worry,” Eric said jubilantly. “I’ll be around to collect.”

“Eric,” Matt warned.

“For?” Reagan inquired, pushing a forkful of noodles into her awaiting mouth and praying she hadn’t missed by too much.

Eric leaned close. “Now, if I straight-up told you exactly what, that wouldn’t leave much of a surprise, would it?”

Emily quietly giggled beside her, and Reagan knew her older sister was enjoying Eric’s playfulness to the fullest. She, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure that she was.

After all, while Eric Malone was indeed a charmer, he was also a player. Reagan could sniff them out a hundred yards away. He couldn’t help himself, probably. Young, ridiculously handsome, from what Emily had said, and no doubt had women of all ages all but banging down his door. Which was fine. She was in no way, shape or form looking for anything other than a little peace.

She needed time to learn several things completely over, some for the first time.

Trust being one of them.

And for now, the very last thing she wanted to even think about or consider was her heart and trust in the same sentence. Wasn’t happening.

Supper, she had to admit, was indeed good, and Reagan was filled to the gills. The mess hall struck up again, and before she knew it the table was cleared and the dishwasher loaded, and a horn blew from outside. Heavy footfalls moved away from the kitchen, and Eric’s voice sounded from the living room. “FedEx. Want me to get it?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Emily answered. “Probably the new aprons I ordered for the café.”

The screen door creaked open and slammed shut, and a few moments later it opened again. “Reagan Rose, these are for you.”

“I didn’t order anything,” she answered. She wondered what they could be. Making her way to the living room, she stood beside Em as Eric, now accompanied by Matt, carried in several large boxes and set them on the floor behind the sofa. Big boxes, that much she could tell. Four in all.