Summer at Seaside Cove (20 page)

“Of course. I have plenty. C'mon in for a minute. I don't want Cupcake to get out.”

Nick stepped into the kitchen, instantly reducing the area to the size of a postage stamp. She skirted around him to open the door to the small pantry. Staring at the shelves, she took several seconds to suck in a slow, deep breath she shouldn't have needed, but darn it, she did. When she turned around holding the bag of dry cat food, she once again stilled at the sight of him, this time hunkered down, one strong, tanned hand stroking Cupcake, who was rubbing herself against his denim-covered knees and purring so loud it sounded as if she'd swallowed a hive of bumblebees.

“So you're Cupcake,” he said. “I've heard a lot about you. Most of it good.”

“She's telling you there's nothing bad—that she's
purr-
fect in every way.”

He gave the cat a final pat, then stood. “I bet Godiva would love to chase her around for a few hours and then slather some drool on her.”

“Yeah, 'cause that's what every girl dreams of—getting chased and then slathered in drool.”

Something kindled in his eyes—a warm, sexy something that made her knees feel like marshmallows. Damn him and his superpower! “Guess it depends on the girl,” he said. “And who's doing the chasing.”

Before she could think of anything to say, he plucked the bag from her. “Thanks.”

She had to clear her throat to locate her voice. “No problem. I always have extra. And even if I didn't, I could whip up something for a hungry kitty.”

His gaze flicked to the stove. “Is that what you're cooking—cat food? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, it smells way too good for pet food.”

“Not pet food. Shrimp scampi.”

“And you're actually
cooking
it? Like on the stove?”

“Uh-huh. Unless you think my superpower is the ability to heat food with my laserlike eyeballs.”

He gave a quick laugh. “I meant it's not from the freezer section at the Piggly Wiggly?”

“Nope. And brace yourself—I even peeled the garlic and cleaned the shrimp.”

“Jamie's an excellent cook,” said her mother, whose presence Jamie had completely forgotten about. “Looks like you've been working hard, Nick. Were you the one doing all that hammering and sawing the past few days?”

Nick nodded. “Putting in a new kitchen. Just about finished.”

“Oh, that
is
hard work,” said Mom. “I bet it looks great.”

“Actually, I think it does—if I may say so myself.” His gaze bounced between her and her mom. “Would you like to see it?”

Jamie clamped her lips shut to prevent
I'd love to see anything you'd care to show me
from popping out. “We'd love to!” chirped Mom. “It's always such fun seeing renovations. But we're just about to eat dinner. Would you like to join us? There's plenty of scampi. Right, Jamie?”

Jamie barely held in the
oof
that popped into her throat when her mom's elbow jabbed her in the ribs. “Uh, yeah. Plenty.” When Nick looked skeptical—yet undeniably hungry—she reiterated, “Really, there's enough shrimp to fill an aquarium. You're welcome to stay.”

“Okay, thanks. I've been surviving on peanut butter and jelly, so a home-cooked meal sounds great. I'll just put out some food for the cat and then come back.”

He flashed one of those darn killer smiles, then left, his footfalls thunking down the wooden stairs.

Jamie didn't realize she was staring at the spot where he'd been until her mom nudged her again. “So that's your neighbor,” Mom said, her voice ripe with . . . something.

“Uh, yeah.” Jamie frowned at the stove. “Do you think I should make more linguini? He eats more than twelve teenagers.”

Mom's brows shot upward. “How do you know that?”

“Because we had breakfast together the first morning I was here and he packed food away like a linebacker. Humph. And not an ounce of fat on him. Totally not fair.”

“I hope you don't mind that I asked him to stay.”

She actually wasn't sure how she felt about it. The fluttering in her stomach felt exactly like anticipation. But it couldn't have been because, well, she didn't
want
to feel that. She
wanted
to forget Nick Trent Great Kisser even existed. How the heck was she supposed to do that if he was coming to dinner?

“I don't mind,” Jamie said. “I'm used to you taking in strays—dogs, cats, neighbors.” It was part of her mom's charm—and led to much of the drama that seemed to follow her everywhere.

“I didn't ask him to stay because I thought he was a stray.”

“Oh? Then why did you?”

“Two reasons, actually. The first was the way you practically swallowed your tongue at the sight of him.”

Gawd! She
hated
that stupid inner voice!

“I was just surprised to see him. He's never stopped by before.”

“Uh-huh. But then there was also the way he looked at you. Like he was starving—and not just for your scampi.”

Heat swamped her face. Oh, crap—the blotches were on their way. “I'm sure you're mistaken,” Jamie said in her schoolmarm voice.

“Honey. Please. Did you honestly not see the way he looked at you? Good Lord, it was enough to make
me
sweat.”

“Those are the pregnancy hormones.”

“Whatever. The point is, whether you saw it or not, he was looking. And whether you admit it or not, you were looking back.”

“I
had
to look—he was standing at the door. Talking to me.”

“There's a difference between looking and
looking
and you were
looking
. And so was he.”

Jamie opened her mouth to argue, but before she could get out a syllable, her mother hurried on, “For heaven's sake, Jamie, there's nothing wrong with looking. Looking is good—it means you're on the road to recovery. And being looked
at
is also good. Enjoy it. In fact, enjoy it right now. Go watch that man who couldn't take his eyes off you feed the kitty. I'll grate the cheese while you're gone.”

Do it,
her pesky inner voice prompted.
You know you want to.
“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I'll also boil more water to make extra linguini. After all, we wouldn't want Nick to go hungry.” Her mother practically shoved her out the door. “Go. Feed cat. Have fun.”

“Okay. But only because I want to see the kitty.”

Mom smiled at her through the screen door. “Of course, honey. Of course.”

Jamie hurried down the steps and across the carport. As she neared the hedge, she slowed and proceeded on tiptoe so as not to scare the cat.

“Boy, you were hungry, weren't you?” came Nick's soft voice.

She peeked around the hedge. The same black-and-white cat she'd previously tried to coax from the bushes was eating ravenously from the bowl of food Nick had set out. Nick sat on the carport several yards away, his forearms resting on his bent knees.

“That's definitely the same cat I tried to feed,” Jamie whispered, moving slowly so as not to scare the animal. She sat down next to Nick. “I don't think she's feral—her ear isn't clipped, plus she hasn't run away. I think she's just scared. Which means she's probably either lost or abandoned.”

Jamie watched the cat eat, her heartstrings tugging at how hungry she clearly was.

“Nothing wrong with her appetite,” Nick said. “Looks like the bowl needs refilling. You want the honors?”

“Sure.” The cat watched her slowly approach, but didn't back away. Jamie sat on the cement and extended her hand. The cat stretched her neck, her nose quivering slightly. “C'mon, baby. I won't hurt you.”

The cat took one tentative step toward her, but just then Godiva began barking inside the house. The cat jumped a foot in the air, then shot into the bushes as if she were fired from a cannon.

Nick winced. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault. I'm sure she'll be back. Would you mind if we moved the bowl of food to my carport?”

“No, in fact, I think that's a good idea. I can tell you want to scoop her up and take her home.”

“I'd like to reunite her with her family if she's lost. If she's abandoned—”

“I sense you'll be her new family.”

“If she'll have me.”

“If she knew you were cooking shrimp, she'd have you in a heartbeat.” He stood, then held out a hand to help her do the same. When she hesitated, he raised a brow. “Not clean enough for you, princess?” He slapped his palm against his jeans a few times, then once again extended his hand to her. “How's that?”

Jeez. It was colossally annoying that she was so physically attracted to such a pest. And wasn't she supposed to be ignoring him? Frowning, she slapped her hand into his. Warm, strong fingers wrapped against hers, and before she could so much as draw a breath, he pulled her up with a heave-ho that had her crashing into him. Her palms flattened against his chest and his arms went around her to steady her. Her gaze collided with his and she discovered him looking at her with that combination of heat and lazy amusement that she was coming to like, er, loathe. Yes, definitely loathe.

Yeah, right. If only.

His hands skimmed down her back and settled at the base of her spine, holding her lightly against him. “If you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask, princess.”

No doubt he expected her to push away. Well, she'd show him. She stayed right where she was. So there.

But she did narrow her eyes at him. “Has anyone ever told you you're a pain in the ass?”

“Actually, yes. Quite a few times.”

“Notice I'm not plotzing with surprise.”

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “
Plotzing?
”

“It's Yiddish. Means ‘to collapse in shock.' ”

“Sounds like you've been chatting with Ira Silverman.”

Jamie nodded. “I've eaten at Oy Vey Mama Mia twice this week. I highly recommend the brisket parmigiana—it's a lot better than it sounds—and the toasted challah bread bruschetta.”

“Noted.” Silence swelled between them for the space of several heartbeats, seconds during which Jamie completely forgot she needed to step away from him, a memory blip no doubt brought on by lack of oxygen to her brain because she'd sort of forgotten how to breathe.

“Unless you want to be kissed—which you've decreed you don't—you'd better stop looking at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to be kissed.”

This time her pride forced her to push against his chest. His arms dropped and she stepped back. “I wasn't looking at you like that.” She hoped.

He laughed. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

“You're very agreeable all of a sudden.”

“I don't want to risk my dinner invite being revoked. Besides, you made your no-kissing rule very clear.”

Crap.
“Darn right.”

He reached out and gently tucked one of her runaway curls behind her ear, a gesture that made her heart stutter. “Good thinking, 'cause if we kissed, we'd totally miss dinner.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because our second kiss would last a lot longer than our first one.”

Oh, my.
“That's quite an ego you've got there.”

“Just callin' it like I see it.” His gaze shifted briefly to Paradise Lost. “Since it rained last night and you weren't banging on my door at dawn, I'm guessing you didn't have any roof leaks.”

“None that I noticed.”

“Good. The place needs a whole new roof, but as long as you're staying dry, it can wait until fall.”

“Sure—fix the place up
after
I leave.”

He cocked a brow. “It would take me at least a week to pull down the old roof and put up a new one. I didn't think you'd want the disruption of construction noises all day long.”

“Like you haven't been making noise anyway?”

“All right. I'll try to get to it sooner rather than later.”

“Maybe you could think about replacing the flooring as well. The peeling linoleum in the kitchen has got to go, and the carpet is older than I am. And some new furniture would be nice—you know, something that actually came from a store, as opposed to a yard sale.”

He folded his arms across his chest, a move that stretched his dusty white T-shirt taut over his broad shoulders. A fine film of sawdust coated his strong forearms, clinging to the golden brown hair. He looked big and strong and capable and absolutely delicious. When had she developed this freakish attraction to the dusty/rumpled/unshaven/needs-a-haircut/ been-working-with-his-hands-all-day look?

As soon as you clapped eyeballs on Nick Trent,
her inner voice answered.

True. But weird. And confusing, as she'd previously always preferred clean-cut, white-collar types. Seemed everything in her life was changing.

“I already have flooring and carpet in mind for Paradise Lost, princess, but things need to be done in the proper order. Renovations first, then painting, then floors.”

“What about furniture?”

“Dead last.”

“You know, you could just move new furniture around during the renovations and cover it up when you paint. I believe that's what
drop cloths
are for. Plus, it would greatly please your renter not to risk getting splinters every time she sets her tea cup on that swaybacked piece of plywood that's posing as a coffee table.”