Melting Into You (Due South Book 2) (6 page)

All he could spit out was, “No you’re not, kiddo.”

Jade turned her face away, her small mouth set in a terse line.

Ben stood, meeting Kezia’s arched eyebrows with a helpless shrug.

“Ah, Jade, do you want anything else?” He squinted through the pink to a recognizable brand name. “A Barbie or something?”

She shook her head, and they walked farther along the aisle. She paused by a display of plush toys and stroked the fur of a stuffed dog.

“I’d like a puppy. A real puppy.”

Visions of steaming dog poop, chewed shoes, and a garden full of holes raised a cold sweat down Ben’s spine. Then he remembered a puppy would be Marci’s problem in two weeks, not his. But he wasn’t cruel enough to buy a kid a pet that she likely couldn’t keep.

He grabbed the soft toy off the display shelf and handed it to her. “How about a trial run with the fake kind?”

Jade hugged the dog, snuggling her tiny chin into the white fur. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Ben tugged one of her pigtails.

Her elbows resting on the cart handle, Kezia watched their interaction with an “aw, how touching” look on her face. But bent forward, she unintentionally exposed the curve of her breast and a sliver of black
lace beneath her top’s low neckline. The lust-stick walloped him upside the head, and the corner of his mouth tugged up in a goofy smile.

His gaze tracked upward to the thick sweep of her lashes, which almost touched her pinked cheeks. She straightened, severing their sizzling eye-contact and murmuring in Italian to Zoe.

Busted...but come on.
Couldn’t blame a guy for looking at such a beautiful woman.

Maybe he could learn to appreciate shopping after all.

***

Kezia dropped the shopping bags with the day’s spoils in her kitchen corner, and the girls disappeared into Zoe’s bedroom. Ben had helped them disembark on the wharf and returned his boat to its mooring spot, while she walked with the girls to her place to get them out of the cold.

With the kitchen warm and welcoming, bliss oozed through her veins as she stuffed her feet into comfy slippers. After tying an apron around her waist, she stoked up the wood burner and unpacked her groceries. While Russell’s grocery store in town provided the basic necessities, no one turned down the opportunity to load up on luxuries when they visited a mainland supermarket.

A knock sounded at the back door.

Her fingers clutched tight around the last jar as she slipped it into the pantry. “Come on in.”

She wiped her palms down her apron. Ridiculous—the man had been in her home many times. Granted, she was often out when Ben came by to see his sister, but still…

Ben kicked off his black sneakers and strode barefoot into the kitchen, a knot of shopping bags clutched in each hand. He placed them alongside hers in the corner. “The girls okay?”

“In Zoe’s room with a board game.”

“That’s good. Sorry I took so long.” He wandered over to her wood burner and cranked open the door.

Such a guy. Drawn to fiddle with anything on fire, as if it were his Neanderthal duty.

“Fire’s going well. It’s warm in here.”

He wrestled his fleece hoodie up and over his head. His tee shirt crackled and rose with static, exposing muscle-ripped abs. A dusting of black hair traced a line south of his stomach and disappeared beneath his faded jeans. Her gaze slipped lower—oh yes, much lower. Down below his waistband to the faded denim cupping him so intimately.

OhgoodLordhavemercy.

It really was a lot warmer in here now.

Kezia crossed to the row of cabinets beside the stove and retrieved a glass with shaky fingers. She filled it with water, ignoring the rustle of Ben’s clothing being adjusted as she sipped.

“Sexy slippers you’ve got there,
Kez.” His voice, low and intimate, came from almost directly behind her. “They suit you.”

A little water got sucked up her nose and she coughed. Kezia took another calmer sip, narrowly avoiding a coughing fit, and looked down. The grey slippers, shaped into the 3D face of
Shrek’s
Donkey, were hardly a turn on. Not that she wanted to turn him on. Ben was a friend, well…kind of friend—more like a friendly acquaintance.

Then why had she changed her clothes five times that morning? If she’d gone to Invercargill with Ford, Oban’s mechanic, or Kip, Due South’s barman—men she also considered friendly acquaintances—she would’ve tossed on th
e first outfit in her wardrobe.

Idio
ta
woman. Vanity, that was all.

Blushing and choking was a normal feminine rea
ction to an attractive male while wearing cartoon slippers. The glass rattled against her teeth, and she returned it to the counter before she hurt herself.

“Are you calling me a donkey, Ben Harland?”

His grin revved her pulse rate. “Now Ms. Murphy, would I do that?”

He moved out of her personal space and helped hi
mself to a glass. “I know how ruthless you can be when crossed.”

His teasing shimmered over her, fanning the fine hairs on her arms to attention. It’d been a long time since a man teased her. A long time. “Ruthless,
pah. Be nice, or I’ll change my mind about inviting you for dinner.”

Ben opened her fridge and poured a glass of milk. “Pity invite, huh?”

“You can’t survive on instant noodles.”

“I bought some tinned spaghetti and sausages.”

“Not a huge improvement.”

He slapped on an affronted expression, but his eyes gleamed. “Shaye and Mum are the only ones who can cook in our family. The rest of us get by and rely on their goodwill.”

“Or on others’ goodwill?”

Another wicked grin. “I’ve b
een told I’m charming company.”

He swallowed half his drink and swiped his tongue along his upper lip, removing a milk mustache. Why hadn’t she ever noticed his lips were so soft? How had she missed their perfect symmetry or the small crescent of a dimple in his cheek when he smiled? That one was easy—because Ben Harland rarely smiled at her.

“Did your dad cook?”

Ben leaned a hip against her kitchen counter and
studied her over the glass rim.

“He pretended he couldn’t, and Mum let him get away with it since she loved to cook. But yeah, before he died he’d take us out on his boat fishing, and we’d fry up whatever we caught or collect shellfish if the fish weren’t biting. We’d make a beach fire somewhere and eat straight out of the pan.”

She didn’t miss the catch in his voice when he’d mentioned his father’s death. A corresponding twinge of empathy twisted through her veins. Her parents died many years ago, and the hollow space in her heart had never completely refilled. “Sounds like a fun thing for a boy to do with his dad.”

“It was. He spent a lot of time with the three of us. Never complained when our mates wanted to tag along.”

Kezia moved to the pantry and selected two carrots and an onion, dropping them on the counter next to the chopping board. Adding carrot to lasagna was sacrilege to Italian tradition, but Zoe’s dislike of vegetables was a challenge at the best of times. Ragú could hide a multitude of sins.

“Your father sounds a lot like my uncle back in the Bay.”

“Where you grew up?”

“Yes. The Italians have had a fishing fleet there since the nineteen-hundreds. My uncle
Nicoli used to take us out to Tapu Te Ranga Island in his old rowboat, and we’d have a picnic. Afterwards, we’d climb to the top of the hill for the view over the Bay.”

She smiled at the memory.

Queen of the World
, she’d once shouted, to the great amusement of Tony, Carlo, Matt and Nicky, all of whom—in typical big-brother fashion—had teased her mercilessly for days afterward.

Ben grabbed a carrot and took a bite. Kezia opened her mouth to tell him to make himself at home, then changed her mind. After all, she’d asked him to stay because he’d treated her and Zoe to a fun day in the city. That was the only reason for her dinner invitation. And because Jade needed a decent meal.
That
was all.

“Your father didn’t take you out?”

She replaced the filched carrot. “Oh, no. He wasn’t a fisherman. Papà worked very hard in his restaurant.”

“Italian restaurant?”

“How did you guess? Yes, my parents worked long hours there.
Antonio’s
was one of the first in the Bay—now you can’t turn around without tripping over another café or restaurant.”

“Mamma, what’s for dinner?” Zoe skipped into the k
itchen on a wave of exuberance.

“Lasagna,” Kezia said. “And Ben and Jade
will stay to share it with us.”

Jade hovered by the door, twisting her pigtail around a finger and clutching the toy dog Ben bought her close to her chest. Her pleading gaze flicked to Ben, but she kept her mouth shut, as if she expected her father to disagree and
drag her away from her friend.

“Do you like lasagna, Jade?” said Kezia.

The girl shuffled her feet. “I don’t know what it is.”

“Oh, you’ll love it. It’s meat sauce, cheese sauce, and pasta all baked together. It’s
sooo yummy, and my mamma makes the best lasagna in the world.” Zoe gave her friend a quick, one-arm hug. “Not just on the island but in the
whole world
.”

“Ah, Zoe, that’s very sweet. But tonight we’re not having my lasagna. Tonight, we’re having Ben’s las
agna.”

“What?” Ben dropped the carrot and it rolled under the kitchen table.

“Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day—”

Kezia bit back a giggle as he
clapped a palm to his forehead.

“Show him how to catch fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” She finished the old Chinese proverb.

He dragged his hand down his sagging jaw, stubble rasping as his fingertips reached his chin. “You want me to make lasagna?”

“Ben can’t cook.” Jade’s brow scrunched.

“The kid’s right—I ruined two packets of instant noodles the other day. Burned the pot black.”

“Today’s as good as any to learn,” Kezia said firmly. “Zoe, grab another apron for Ben.”

Zoe ran to the clothes hooks by the back door and grabbed the
Kiss the Cook
apron Kezia had bought Shaye for Christmas. She held it out to Ben.

“He can’t
wear that!” Jade’s eyes popped.

Ben read the slogan and rakishly wiggled his ey
ebrows. “I can too.”

He tugged the apron over his head and puckered his lips at Jade. “Give us a kiss, Jade?”

“No. You look funny!” But a giggle slipped out from behind the hand Jade clasped to her mouth.

Ben struggled to knot the ties around his waist, so Kezia step
ped forward.

“Here, let me.”

She brushed away his hands and looped the ties into a bow, her knuckles grazing the warmth of his tee shirt. The heat tickling her knuckles transferred to her cheeks. Somebody turn on the air-conditioning! Kezia turned away and selected a knife from the block.

“How about we start with something easy? Like di
cing onions.”

“Surely I can’t screw that up.”

“Just don’t chop off a finger.”

The girls disappeared into Zoe’s room again, and Kezia retrieved a pot from a cabinet and placed it on the stove.

Ben picked up the knife and sliced off the shoot and root. Predictably, his eyes teared-up while he sliced through the first onion half. Mamma would’ve wept in despair at the chunky, uneven cuts. Luckily, Kezia wasn’t a purist and even luckier, after years of cutting onions, she remained virtually immune to the fumes.

Squinting against the onion’s onslaught, Ben arched away from the chopping board and sighted down his
nose to line up the next slice.

“Wait—” Kezia tore off a paper towel from the roll and with one hand on his forearm for balance, rose on tip-toes to dab his cheek. “You’ll cut yourself.”

Wiry muscle flexed under her fingertips as she pressed closer to blot his streaming eyes. The hairs on Ben’s forearm tickled her palm, as if they’d risen to attention.

Oh
. Her left boob squished against his biceps.
Oh, merda.

The knife clunked on the chopping board and she tried to pull away. Ben’s hand clamped over hers. He took the paper towel from her numb fingers and wiped it across
his reddened eyes.

“Better?” She aimed for a light tone as s
he tugged to get her hand back.

No such luck. His grip tightened. Well, she could at least keep her nipple
from poking a hole in his arm.

Kezia arched her upper body away, but made the mistake
of looking into Ben’s face.

His eyes, while red-rimmed and shiny, glittered with more than onion tears. A spark, fierce and explosive, flared out from his gaze and sizzled through her system. She froze, every nerve ending on high alert, caught b
etween the urge to retreat further but locked in a timeless dance of wills.