Читать книгу Last Chance At The Someday Café - Angel Smits - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

TARA GASPED, STRUGGLING not to drop everything in her arms. No such luck, as her purse and groceries tumbled to the ground. She didn’t suffer a similar fate only because Morgan caught her.

Morgan.

“You okay?” His voice was deep, his arms warm, solid bands through her jacket. His breath brushed her cheek and she wasn’t sure how long his gaze held hers.

“Uh, yeah.” She hastily pulled away once her brain kicked into gear. Cold replaced the warmth of his arms. Trying not to look at him or think about how close they were, she bent to gather her groceries. They’d scattered clear across the wet sidewalk. One of the plastic bags had torn.

“Let me help.” Morgan crouched beside her, and Tara couldn’t help noticing his thick, muscular thighs right there in front of her—or the enticing curve of his biceps as he easily took on the weight of the canned goods. What items she could grab, she shoved into the remaining bag before facing him again.

His arms were full of her groceries. And he was smiling at her. Damn. She’d wondered earlier what that smile would do to her. Now she knew. Her stomach did one of those annoying little backflips. Karma was a bitch. Hastily, she reached for the last few items and shot to her feet, berating herself for letting him distract her. She’d sworn she wouldn’t let that happen again.

When she’d bought the diner, she’d also found a sweet little apartment within walking distance of both work and downtown. What she hadn’t taken into consideration tonight—besides slamming into a solid, brick wall of a man coming around a corner—was weather. The fact that it had been raining on and off all day had made the trek long and cold. And wet. Very wet.

She knew her hair was plastered to her head, and she was sure she looked like a drowned rat. Maybe the late-day shadows would disguise her at least a little. Self-conscious, she tried to deflect the focus away from herself. “I—I thought you’d be leaving town.”

“Still working on that. Good thing, too. Looks like you need my help.” He winked.

He seemed entirely too happy about that fact. She scowled and fought the answering smile. “I can take—” Glancing down, she realized she couldn’t take any of it. The other bag was ripped beyond salvaging, and she only had two arms. Surely, there was a way to stack it, cram everything into the one bag.

“Where you headed?” he asked, settling the canned goods more solidly in his arms.

“Home.”

“Point me in the right direction.” He was still smiling. “I’ll help.”

Tara shivered, as much from the cold of the rain as the realization that she had no choice but to show this veritable stranger her home. Either that or leave her groceries sitting here on the curb.

“Come on.” She headed toward her apartment building, knowing that at least some of her neighbors were home. Mrs. Walton across the hall was always home. If Tara screamed, someone would hear her. But would they do anything?

She mentally rolled her eyes. She was being ridiculous.

Morgan walked beside her, his height and bulk blocking some of the rain, and Tara gave up resisting the urge to look at him. He was as soaked as she was, but why didn’t he look like a drowned rat? If anything, he looked better all wet.

His jeans drew her gaze. The damp denim plastered to the hard contours of his leg muscles. Definitely a bodybuilder, he had a grace most hulking guys didn’t. The T-shirt he wore was a dark color, so the damp didn’t look as obvious, except to make the definition of those muscles clear. Six-pack abs. Pecs that were solidly defined and wide shoulders that flexed with the flow of muscle, broad and strong.

Tara doubted she could circle those biceps with both hands... The idea of touching him so intimately sent a flush from her head to her toes and back again.

Thankfully, they reached their destination, and she hurried to the protection of the porch. The rain intensified, and she dodged the cold drops falling down her neck. The patter of the raindrops on the veranda’s roof seemed loud and insistent.

“Nice place.” He looked around with interest when he joined her. “How many apartments?”

“Six,” she explained as she opened the door of what had once been a great Victorian house. Much of the grandeur still clung to the facade, but the inviting hominess of the place had long faded. “I’m upstairs.”

Stepping inside the foyer, she gulped as his size overwhelmed the tiny space. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the sides of the narrow doorway.

Once the door was closed and the patter of the falling rain muffled, silence pressed in on her, making her question again the sanity of bringing him to her home.

“If you’d feel better, I’ll just leave these things here. They should be safe enough. You can come back and get them.”

She stared. “How did you know?”

“That you’re nervous about bringing me here?” Morgan laughed, but it wasn’t a teasing laugh or a laugh that mocked her. It was almost self-deprecating. “You’re not stupid, Tara. You should be cautious. I appreciate that.”

Carefully, he stacked the cans on the small side table by the metal mailboxes in the wall. He’d wrapped a couple pasta boxes in the torn plastic bag, and, pulling them out now, he examined them to make sure they were dry. One looked the worse for the wear. “Sorry about that.”

He turned to go, nodding at her as his hand curled around the old-fashioned door handle. “I’ll be on my way.”

He’d almost reached the other side of the porch before she broke out of her stupor and called after him. “Wait!”

Morgan looked over his shoulder at her.

He stood on the edge of the rain, the streetlight’s bright glow falling over him the same way the raindrops did. So close. He was so close. Body-heat-sharing distance. Tasting the scent of him, she almost sighed at the rawness of him mingling with the damp night. She didn’t want him to leave. There was so much more to him, and she was intrigued.

“The least I can do to thank you is let you dry off.” This was ridiculous. She’d never been paranoid, never been inhospitable before. Why start now?

He turned around fully.

“I really do appreciate your help,” she added.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly, though the depth of his voice echoed around the empty foyer.

“Come on.” Reaching into her pocket, Tara pulled out her keys, then headed up the stairs.

* * *

MORGAN FOLLOWED TARA through the front door of the big, old house. He could see where it had been a grand place in its day, but where the foyer would have opened to several rooms, it was now a lobby of sorts, closed off and small. A door to the right had a brass A on it. B was across the hall, and straight ahead beyond the stairway was a door with C sitting a bit sideways.

A curved set of stairs led up, the carved handrail and delicate spindles showing definite signs of wear. As she stepped on the runner that ran up the center, each stair gave off a deep groan. He didn’t hesitate to grab the groceries he’d just set down and followed her.

Three more doors branched off the upper landing. She stuck a key in the door straight ahead. Apartment E. It opened soundlessly, and she led him inside. She tossed her purse on a small table and shucked her jacket, putting it on an old-fashioned coat tree a few inches beyond.

Fading daylight and the streetlight’s glow flooded the room through a turret-shaped alcove on the opposite wall. It looked inviting, and he took several steps before realizing he’d moved. He stood in the center of the room where he could easily turn and see everything. A small kitchen. The main room. Two wooden doors, both ajar. A bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a bedroom beyond. His gaze clung to that shadowed view. Rumpled bed, covers tossed up but not made.

Tara frowned but didn’t argue or try to stop his perusal. “Just put those on the kitchen table,” she directed, and he stepped into what seemed like a simple kitchen. Not what he expected in the home of a chef.

He continued to look around with growing interest. The pale green wall color and white subway tile fit her, though the regular stove and small counters did not.

He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t think he made any noise, but she turned her head. Their gazes met and held. Her eyes were pale blue, a color that fit with the light tone of her blond hair. Wisps fluttered in the air that wafted from the heat vent.

The image he’d seen of her on his computer where she’d been wearing the tank top and shorts flashed in his mind, reminding him that beneath that damp sweater were sweet curves and pretty, smooth skin.

Look somewhere else. He yanked his gaze to the surroundings, forcing his mind to think mundane thoughts.

This place told him more than he’d expected. He felt welcome here. She was relaxed and made her way around the kitchen table with ease.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked as she put the groceries away.

“Nah, I’m good.” Morgan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He’d always learned by touching and feeling, not just looking. And this place was filled with things he was sorely tempted to pick up and feel, experience. Including her.

“Well, I’m cold.” She rubbed her arms, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her movements. “I’m making some coffee.” Her smile reached out to him. “I’ll share.”

Stretching, she opened some upper cabinets and pulled out a canister. He stood there staring like a fool when her shirt rode up, just a little, to expose her sweet, flat abdomen. He tore his gaze away from her again. The scent of fresh-ground coffee wafted in the air as she busied herself making a pot. What was wrong with him? He had to get out of here before he said or did something stupid. He looked around for an escape.

As he turned, nearly bolting for the door, a shelf above the kitchen table caught his eye. Polished wood, it overflowed with books. Cookbooks. These weren’t fancy, gourmet books. No, these were old, tattered—the kind he remembered seeing in his grandmother’s house. That woman could cook.

“You get ideas for your menu from those?” He tipped his head toward the shelf.

Tara looked up. “From...?” She followed his gaze and smiled as if she didn’t notice the tension thick in the air. “Some, yes.” She took a step toward the shelf. “Some I can’t use since they don’t even make the ingredients anymore. But I was able to modify a few of them.”

She pulled down an especially tattered book and flipped through the yellowed pages. Finally, she found what she was looking for and pointed to a spot on the page. “This is the recipe I started with to make my turnovers.” She looked at him and smiled. “The ones you liked so much last night.”

Morgan smiled back, and the sound of the clock ticking over their heads was loud in the stillness between them.

His mind wound around itself. She’d noticed how much he’d liked the turnovers? She paid attention. To him.

“Do you know all your customers so well?” Damn. His voice broke on the third word. He cleared his throat.

“Some.” She stepped back and, with deliberate movements, pulled thick coffee mugs from the cupboard. “Sugar, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She grabbed a sugar bowl, a dainty cup with the same green color as the walls in the design on the sides. He focused on that, trying and failing to not focus on her movements.

Filling both cups, Tara took her time preparing them, his with sugar, hers with a touch of cream and sweetener. Her hands were delicate, the nails trimmed short and even. She didn’t wear any jewelry—no ring, no bracelet or watch. None of the glitz other women wore, but she didn’t need it.

He almost didn’t take the cup when she extended it to him. Almost.

Their fingers brushed. Where her skin was soft, the cup was solid. Both were warm. The scent of the coffee and something else—perfume—wafted between them.

Morgan leaned against the counter and cradled the cup. He had to do something with his hands or he’d try to touch her.

“So, tell me about Morgan Thane.” She leaned on the opposite counter and faced him. She took a deep drink from her mug and waited.

“Not much to tell. My brother, Jack, and I run our trucking company. I drive. He’s the office. Nothing fancy. What about you? Wendy says you just bought the diner.” He wasn’t into sharing anything about his past with her. Not yet, and certainly not now. Discussing Sylvie was off the table here in Tara’s pretty little kitchen.

“Yeah.” She smiled and he knew he’d found her soft spot. He focused on his cup, wishing instead that he could taste the excited blush that swept up her cheeks.

“I’ve been working on the diner for a couple months. Daisy wanted to keep going, but she just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“The diner looks different but—” He frowned, looking for the best way to explain his thoughts. “Feels the same.”

“Thanks. That’s a compliment. I always loved Daisy’s place. I tried to keep some of it.”

Tara grinned and he felt a responding warmth in his chest. He laughed, surprising himself with how good it felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company.

Not since long before Sylvie left.

* * *

TARA KNEW HER apartment was small, and this kitchen even smaller. She should have felt cramped here with him. But she didn’t. She liked the closeness, and despite all her good intentions, she wanted to be closer. Much closer.

Morgan Thane attracted her. And despite her denials to Wendy, he was most certainly her type. He was a good-looking, apparently decent guy. Yep, her type.

“Where are you from, originally?” Not from here. She might have grown up in Austin, but the ranch down the road where her brother now lived had belonged to her grandparents. She’d spent plenty of time here. She knew most of the locals.

“Dallas,” he said with a definite grimace in his voice. “The business is based there.”

She nodded, taking in the information—the safe, untempting information. She tried to formulate safe, intelligent questions. “You said you have a brother. Older or younger?”

He laughed. “Younger by three years.”

Ah, the older brother. She tried not to compare him to her own three brothers.