Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (35 page)

She
fixed a stern look on her face.  “Did you just have sex with me to soften me up so I’d cook for you?”

“I had sex with you because I like it.  But you should cook for me because you liked it, too.”

Amused, Sarah reached for his discarded T-shirt.  “How do you like your eggs?”

HE
liked them scrambled, and lots of them.  And when Mason wandered down, sleepy-eyed and hopeful, he persuaded Sarah to make his coddled, along with what he termed “toasty bread with cheese.”

“You
people are weird,” Tucker said, as he watched Mason break open the lightly cooked yolk.  “I think the lack of sunlight in England somehow atrophied your collective taste buds.”

“It
’s delicious,” Mason pronounced.

“Who eats grilled cheese for breakfast?”

“Just be glad you didn’t have any kippers.”  His brows drew together, then he leaned over, scooped something off of the floor.  “Yours?” he murmured, and offered Tucker the shiny pink button.

Tucker narrowed his eyes.  Mason smirked
, then suddenly frowned with distaste.  “Christ, Pettigrew.  Did you have to do it on the bloody table?  You know,” he expertly pitched his voice so that Sarah could hear from her position at the stove.  “I could use some fresh air.  I believe I’ll breakfast on the porch.”

As Mason strolled off with his plate, Tucker looked
back at Sarah.

Her hair was bundled on top of her head, with fiery curls spilling haphazardly this way and that.  Her skin was milk pale, her long hands efficient as she wiped down the
yellowed enamel of his vintage appliance. 

Bright, he thought.  Yes, she was bright.  A spot of color and movement in his
otherwise dull kitchen. 

She’d changed out of his shirt, to Tucker’s disappointment.  When she’d gone home to fetch the eggs and the coffee beans and
, well, pretty much everything else to make breakfast, she’d come back dressed in a vivid green tank and tan shorts.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the
way her curves were packed into the snug-fitting top.  But seeing her in his shirt had aroused a… sense of possessiveness in him.  His.  His shirt.  His stove. 

His woman.

H
e pushed back from the table.  “You don’t have to do that,” he said as he came up behind her.

“Already finished.”  She gave the stovetop one final swipe, then tossed the damp sponge into the sink.  “I do hope you’re not planning to get rid of this thing when you remodel.  It cooks like a dream.
  I…oh.”

When she turned
, he caged her against the counter.  “You put your clothes on.”

“Generally speaking, people do.”

“I like you the other way.”

“Well, that might present a problem when I head out to the nursery today.”

“Nursery?”  He pleased himself by nibbling up the long line of her neck.

“You know, plants and flowers and
mulch and… get a hold of yourself, Pettigrew.”

“I’d rather
get a hold of you.”

She laughed, darted a
nervous glance at the porch, then slapped away his roving hands.  “Down boy.  I have to get going if I want to beat the crowd.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to get any farther, Tucker pressed a kiss to her shoulder and backed off.  “This nursery.  Do they sell pots?”

“You mean for flowers?”

“No, to piss in.”

“Very funny.  Of course they have pots.  Why?”

He thought of the
yellow flowers he’d seen at the bank.  “I might want to do some of those,” he gestured vaguely “bloomy things you mentioned.”

She bit her cheek. “Bloomy things?”

“How the hell do I know what they’re called?”

“Hibiscus.”  Then the amusement in her eyes turned greedy.
  “Although you get enough sun, just there, at the bottom of the steps that you might be able to do a nice dwarf citrus.  Wouldn’t that be fun?  Maybe offset those with beds of lantana along either side of the walk.  They bloom like champs, and Lord knows it would be an improvement over that patchy grass that’s there now.  Granted, it’s not the optimal time to plant, but as long as you’re conscientious about watering –”

“Sa
rah.”  He held up his hands.  “I said a couple pots.  Not botanical gardens.”

“Relax.” She patted his cheek.  “This’ll be fun.”

“FYI,”
Tucker complained as he pulled his truck out of the nursery lot.
 
“Dropping a hundred dollars on plants is not my idea of fun.”

“
Ninety-seven.  Anyway, at least forty of that was on pots.”  Sarah turned to admire the sea of colorful blooms in the bed of his truck.  “And just look how pretty they look back there.”

He scowled into the rearview mirror.  “A pickup truck is supposed to be tough and manly.  Not
pretty.”

“There’s no reason it
can’t be both.  You’re tough and manly, but your work, what comes from you, is pretty in its way.”

His brows slammed together.  “I don’t write… flowery.”

“Actually, I was talking about your carpentry.  The chairs you built for the back porch are gorgeous.  But.” Since he’d brought it up.  “Prose doesn’t have to be flowery or inflated to be graceful.  And graceful by definition is pleasing and attractive in form.  If you follow that logic, it’s not unreasonable to say your writing is pretty.”

“Hmm.”

Trying not to be disappointed that he continued to keep that door closed, Sarah looked out her window.  “It’s a beautiful day.”  Puffy white clouds dotted the sky like a herd of fat sheep, oblivious to the lazy breeze that couldn’t muster up enough energy to stir them.

“Hot,” was Tucker’s opinion.

“Yes, but the humidity isn’t bad.  We won’t… hey!”  She yanked the water bottle which had been resting in the cup holder between them back out of his hands.  “You can’t drink that.”

“Why the hell not?  You have two of them.”

“It’s sugar water.  Sam at the nursery mixes it up special for me for transplanting.  It helps prevent root shock.”

“Jesus,” Tucker muttered under his breath.

“You just wait until you have great big pots of bloomy things,
bucko, and then we’ll see how ridiculous you think I am.”

“Bucko?”

He grinned, his elbow resting in his open window, the breeze pouring through ruffling his hair.

“
Excuse me.  I meant to say you belly-crawling Yankee bastard.”

She felt his laugh straight down to her toes.

“There’s a car in your lot.”

“What?”

Tucker gestured toward the Jeep that was parked beside Sarah’s little compact.  “Well, they’re just going to have to be disappointed, because we’re closed. 
I’ll just… oh.”  Her heart simply sang when she saw the familiar figure studying the garden.  “Daddy.  It’s my father.  Pull in, Tucker.  He wasn’t supposed to be here again until Thanksgiving.”

SARAH
was out of the truck and running before he’d even shifted into park. 

Tucker
watched her fling herself into the arms of a tall, spare man with graying dark hair and a baked-in tan.  Her garden bloomed around them, a surplus of life forming a poignant frame.  When he laughed, gathering her close in a way that was endemic of parental pride, it made Tucker feel utterly alone.   

Grief shot out its capricious hand, and gave his heart one violent squeeze.

Breathing deep until the pain eased back, he sat uncertain and slightly embarrassed in the cab of the truck.

Did he
go over there, introduce himself?  Did he give them space?

Space was
the option he would have liked.  He didn’t do particularly well with fathers, not having had one of his own.  Not to say he hadn’t had male role models.  His mom had eventually had friends, and dates – a couple of whom had taken him to ballgames and such.  There’d been teachers he’d admired, and old Mister Saul, the handyman in their building, who’d first shown Tucker how to swing a hammer.

But that didn’t make it any easier
to walk up to the father of the woman he was sleeping with, say how do you do.

He hadn’t had to face that kind of thing since high school, when he’d taken Maria Tede
sco to prom.

But he wasn’t eighteen any longer.  He was a full grown man who
se mother – as he’d been reminded often – had raised him to be polite.  Maybe it didn’t always work out that way, but surely he could handle his lover’s father.

If sweat beaded on his forehead when he climbed out, he told himself it was the heat.

“What are you doing here?” he heard Sarah say.  “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but it’s still a few months shy of November.”

“A man needs a reason to visit his little girl?”

Little girl,
Tucker thought, closely followed by
Shit. 
He hoped the man didn’t own a shotgun.

“He does when
he leaves his business during the middle of his busiest season,” Sarah continued.

“Sandy’s minding the bait shop, and her son’s
taking the charters I had booked.  Boy knows the waters
,
and he’s not an idiot.  He can handle it.”

Sarah opened her mouth
, but then she caught sight of Tucker over her father’s shoulder.  That the smile she gave him was both easy and natural made his stomach jump even more in response. 

“Tucker, I’d like you to meet my father, John Barnwell.  Daddy, this is Tucker P
ettigrew.”

“Sir.”  Tucker offered his hand.

And oh yeah, there was that Dirty Harry look that must come automatically the moment a man was presented with a bouncing baby girl.  Lines fanned out into his weather-scored face from eyes as cool and green as lake water.

“Heard about you.”

Tucker wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

“From whom?”
Sarah demanded.  Then her eyes narrowed, much as her father’s had done.  “Noah.  That little rat.”

“Now Sarah –”

Disgust chased accusation across her face.  “For men who’re supposed to be taciturn, you two gossip like little old women in a beauty shop. 
And,
I’d like to point out, I’m old enough to make my own decisions.  Did you seriously drive all the way up here because I’m having an adult relationship with a man?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about that.  I don’t want to
know
about that.”  He shot Tucker one quick look that seared his skin.  “I came because I wanted to see for myself what the Hawbaker boy is doing about your trouble.”

“My… I swear I’m going to kill Noah dead.  It was a couple of mean pranks, Daddy, and nothing for you to worry about.”

John stuffed his hands into his pockets.  As another taciturn man, Tucker recognized it as a sign that he didn’t agree, and was frustrated with being forced to debate the issue.

“I’ll decide what I worry about when it comes to my daughter.”

“Daddy –”

John held up a hand.  “We’ll talk about it inside, out of this heat.”

She sighed.  “Okay.  I’m sorry I haven’t offered you something cold to drink.  Tucker, would it be okay if we take a rain check on planting those flowers?  You’ll need to water them until I can get to them.”

“No problem.”  They obviously were about to have a private family conversation.  He tried not to look too relieved to be off the hook. “I’ll just unload your mulch for you before I go.”

“Hold on there.”  John eyed him up and down.  “You’re involved with my daughter, aren’t you?”

Whatever he said, it was bound to be
the wrong thing.  “That’s a fair description.”

“
Then you’ll come along.  I’ve got some things to say.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

AS
Sarah poured iced tea into vintage cobalt drinking glasses, she eyed the men who sat across from each other at her tiny kitchen table.

They loo
ked like two big, slightly ill-mannered dogs that had been shoved into the same cage, and were keeping a cautious eye out in case the other decided to bite.  It was both amusing and ridiculous.

Because it made her feel affectionate, Sarah hid her smile as she handed each of them a glass.

“Thank you,” Tucker said while her father muttered “Obliged.”

John looked at the pieces of frui
t and herb floating in his beverage.  “What’s in here this time?”

“Raspberry and mint.
  The mint’s fresh from the garden.”

“Good,” he pronounced after taking a cautious sip.  “You always did have a hand for this kind of thing.  Fancyin’ up water with slices of lemon and sticking little sprigs of green stuff on the side of the spaghetti.”