Sweet Surprises (14 page)

“I guess I'm making a pig of myself,” she mumbled, but she didn't put the fry back.

“Do you care?”

“No,” she admitted. “This is the best meal I've eaten in months.”

“Then you haven't been eating very well.”

“Don't underestimate the power of your burgers and fries, River. I'd marry you tomorrow if it meant eating this every night for the rest of my life.” Her blush deepened. “That was a stupid thing to say.”

“Depends on which side of the table you're sitting on,” he responded lightly, because that was the kind of response the comment deserved.

A joke. A little flirtation. A sincere thank you for a good meal. How many times had he gotten the same from other women?

She'd planted an image in his head, though. The two of them cooking meals together, cleaning up together, setting tables and cleaning them off and doing a dozen things couples did when they'd known each other for so long that the little things had become much more important than the grand gestures.

“I'm sitting on this side,” she muttered, “and it sounded stupid. Sorry. All that good food went to my head.” She grabbed her empty plate and his and carried them to the sink.

“Leave them for now. I'll wash them after we do a tour of the house.”

“Better now than when all the grease is set.” She squirted soap into the sink, ran steaming water on top of it, scrubbed each plate to within an inch of its life.

Her cell phone rang as she set the last one in the drainer and she scowled. “If that's Jeff again . . .” She glanced at the screen. “Damn!”

“Want me to talk to him?” he offered, and she shook her head.

“It's not him. It's my mother. She's almost as bad, but with her, I have an obligation to answer. Excuse me for a second.” She stepped into the hall, and he could hear a few mumbled words.

Then nothing for so long River thought she'd finished the conversation. He waited another heartbeat, was just about ready to walk into the hall when she started talking again. “Fine. I'll be there.”

She stepped back into the kitchen, shoving the phone into her pocket.

“Trouble?”

“A dinner party next month to celebrate Willow's birthday.”

“Your older sister?”

“Yes, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't want a dinner party at Mom's house as a present.”

“Then why have one?”

“Because Janelle loves any opportunity to show off her daughters' successes.” She frowned. “Sorry. My mouth seems to be getting away from me tonight. My mother loves us, and she enjoys letting people know how successful we all are.”

“There's nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Only if you're the one who isn't successful.”

“From what I hear, you've accomplished a lot.”

“The problem with the things we hear is that they're not always accurate. Or timely. Or even true. Come on. Let's look around the house and see what Belinda already has. In a place this old, there's got to be some antiques lying around just waiting to be polished up and displayed.”

The end of the conversation.

At least, that was what Brenna seemed to want, but River was just curious enough to hold on to the words, think about them as they walked through the hallway and into the parlor, the dining room, the living room. She searched each room like she was on a treasure hunt, peering under tables and behind furniture that had probably been standing in the same place for decades.

She found a lot more than he'd realized was there.

Old lamps that sparkled when she wiped dust from their glass shades. Framed paintings hidden on the floor behind the couch. Several photos hidden behind a clutter of knickknacks on the fireplace mantel, all of them displayed at Freedom Ranch during its heyday.

“These are perfect,” she said, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm, her cheek smudged with dust. For some reason, Huckleberry had been cleaning like a madman, dusting every visible surface in the house, cleaning off mirrors and dry mopping floors. He hadn't thought to pull out the furniture or sweep dust bunnies out of the corners.

Neither had River, but then, he'd been working every minute he wasn't taking Belinda to doctor appointments and therapy sessions.

“We can hang them in the parlor. Guests will love looking at them.” She carried the pile through the hall and into what had probably once been a formal sitting room. This room, more than any of the others, reminded him of Dillard. The old leather armchair, the huge rolltop desk piled high with papers and bills and photos of Belinda and dozens of foster kids, the dark shelves filled with old books that only the most responsible of the ranch kids could touch.

“Wow!” Brenna breathed, her eyes widening as she took in the room. She set the photos on the chair and walked to one of the shelves. “I didn't realize you had a library in here.”

“It was Dillard's office. They kept the door locked when they had parties.” Another thing he'd forgotten until he'd come back: how much Dillard had loved his old desk and his old books.

“He must have hundreds of books here.” She lifted one from the shelf, dusting the old spine and the cover. “I wonder where he got all of them.”

“He used to go to yard sales every Saturday. When I first got to town and was getting into all kinds of trouble, he'd drag me out of bed and make me go with him.”

“That's a creative way of punishing someone,” she said as she lifted another book—this one large and thick—and flipped open the leather cover.

“It's a Bible,” she murmured. “Look.” She pressed in close, her arm right up against his, her head blocking his view of the huge tome.

Chocolate, strawberries, and a hint of misty rain, and that soft red hair that glowed in the lamplight.

He could have taken the book from her hands, let his fingers trail up her arms and slide through her hair. He could have pulled her in for the kiss he'd been wanting from the moment he'd walked into Chocolate Haven and seen her standing in the midst of the wrecked kitchen, specks of chocolate on her hands and cheeks. He didn't think she'd complain because he was pretty damn sure she felt what he did: that zing of heat that made him think of long nights and early mornings, wild hair and wilder kisses. That spark of electricity that made him forget his life was too busy and full for someone like Brenna.

Yeah. He wanted to turn her into his arms, take the book from her hands, see just how far one simple kiss would take them, but she was looking at the Bible like she'd just found a pot of gold, the look on her face joyous and full of wonder.

He leaned over her shoulder, saw the page she was looking at and the list of names and dates written in beautiful calligraphy, the margins filled with colorful scrollwork.

“Can you believe it?” she asked, turning to face him, the huge Bible between them. “The first birth listed is 1745.”

“Yes.” He could believe it. What he couldn't believe was that he was looking into the face of the pretty little girl who used to carry books all over town, the one who'd been gangly and young and a little different from the other kids, and that he was thinking she was still pretty and gangly and a little different, and he liked that. He liked it a lot.

“I bet these pages are hand painted,” she murmured, turning to a beautiful illustration of the Garden of Eden. “And I bet this Bible would be worth a small fortune to some collector somewhere.”

“I'd never get rid of it,” he said, and she looked up, met his eyes. He knew the minute she felt that thing, that little tug of attraction that seemed determined to pull them together.

She blushed. “You must think I'm nuts, getting excited about an old Bible.” She closed the book, set it back on the shelf, turning her back to him just the way he'd known she would.

Once bitten, twice shy
.

One of Dillard's favorite things to say when he was dealing with hardheaded kids who'd refused to trust because every adult they'd ever counted on had betrayed them.

“Not every dog bites,” he said quietly, his hands settling on Brenna's waist. She turned, and they were just . . . there. The two of them, alone in a house that needed to be filled. He could smell that hint of chocolate, that subtle scent of strawberries, could feel the warmth of her skin through layers of fabric.

“What?” she murmured, not pulling away but not leaning in. She'd been through hell. He could see that. If her family didn't, if they really thought she'd just come home to help in the chocolate shop, they were blind.

“Dillard used to say that to me every time he came through for me when I didn't think he would. My first year here, it was a bike. He'd told me that if I got straight As on my report card, he'd get me one of those dirt bikes all the kids at school had. I didn't believe him.”

“So, you didn't get the grades?”

“I did. Just to prove he was a liar. I flashed my report card in his face, and I probably said a few words that would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap if Dillard and Belinda were a different kind of people. I can't remember much about that, but what I do remember saying—and I've never forgotten this—is
See, Old Man? You're just like every other loser I've ever met. You make all kinds of promises you can't keep. We both know you don't have money for a bike, and we both know you were never going to get me one. So you can take these damn grades and shove them where the sun don't shine.
Once I finished my tirade, I stomped to my room and slammed the door.”

“Did he go out and get you the bike?”

“He didn't have to. It was already in my room. Sitting near the window. I'll never forget that either. I slammed the door and I was so full of arrogance and pride, thinking I'd finally gotten one over on Dillard, that I didn't notice it at first. Then the sun hit the handlebars just right, and I got a flash of light right in the eye. When I realized what it was, I started shaking. Up until that point, no one had ever come through for me.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, her hands resting on his forearms, her fingers light and cool against his skin.

“I'm not. All those people, the ones who failed me over and over again, led me to the people who never did. Not every dog bites, red. Not every person disappoints.” He brushed the smudge of dust from her cheek, let his hand slide to her nape. “And just because you've been to hell doesn't mean you have to keep revisiting it.”

“Who says I am?”

“Your eyes.” He leaned in, did what he'd been wanting to, his lips just brushing hers, just getting a taste of chocolate and strawberries and something infinitely darker and richer.

Her hands slid around his waist, and he knew he could take more. He wanted more. God knew he did, but she'd regret what he took and what she gave, and that wasn't a game he was willing to play.

He cupped her face, his thumbs resting at the corner of her mouth. Her pulse thrummed beneath his fingers, the frantic pace of it heating his blood.

“Where do you want to go with this, red?” he asked.

And she shook her head, took a step back. “It's late. I need to get home.”

“That wasn't the question.”

“I don't have an answer.” She smoothed her hair and her hand was shaking, her fingers trembling as she touched her lips. “My life is . . . complicated.”

“So's mine,” he responded, moving into her space just enough to watch her pupils dilate and hear her breath catch.

God! She was beautiful, the sharp angle of her jaw and her cheekbones, the softness of her skin and hair. He ran his thumb along her lower lip and she sighed, levering up for another kiss that he knew she wanted just as much as he did.

The front door banged open and she jumped back, nearly tumbling in her haste to get away.

“I think I'd better go,” she muttered, turning on her heels and running into the hallway.

He followed more slowly, not sure if he was more relieved or angry at the interruption. Rushing into things wasn't his style, but he wanted to rush into this with Brenna.

Whatever
this
was.

Cold air and rain swept through the hallway, the wide open front door letting the wind carry both in. The rain had turned into a downpour, and Huckleberry and Angel seemed to have gotten caught in it. Both stood in the foyer, dripping wet and staring Brenna down.

“What's she doing here?” Angel asked, not even bothering to look in River's direction. She wore a soaked shirt, black work pants, and sandals that exposed toes turning purple with cold, but she didn't seem in any hurry to go warm up.

“Helping with the house,” he responded, grabbing one of Dillard's old coats from the coat closet and dropping it around her shoulders.

“We don't need help. Do we, Huckleberry?” Angel's teeth were chattering, her belly pressing against her nearly translucent T-shirt.

“Not from a troublemaker like her,” Huckleberry spat.

Brenna frowned. “I haven't caused either of you any trouble, but if you don't want me here—”

“It's not their choice,” he cut in, and Angel's scowl deepened.

“Do you know what everyone in town is saying about Mack?” she demanded, the coat falling to the floor as she took a step in Brenna's direction. “They're saying he attacked you for no reason, that he's crazy, and that he needs to be in a mental institution.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Brenna said, the sincerity in her voice and on her face apparently lost on Angel and Huckleberry.