Читать книгу Marriage, Maverick Style! - Christine Rimmer - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Homer Gilmore blinked as though waking himself from a sound sleep—and then he grinned wide, showing crooked, yellowed teeth. “Well, if it ain’t little Tessa Strickland. Stayin’ at your grandma’s place for the summer?”

“Yes, I am. And you didn’t answer my question.”

Homer scratched his stubbly cheek. “Me? Eavesdropping?” He put on a hurt expression. “Tessa, you know me better than that.”

Beside her, Carson rose smoothly to his feet and held down a hand for her. She took it, and he pulled her up to stand beside him.

Homer came toward them.

Carson seemed bemused. “Homer Gilmore. Face-to-face at last.”

Homer recognized him. “Carson Drake.” He accepted Carson’s offered hand and gave it a quick pump before letting go. “Told you I’d be in touch.”

“So then, that really was you on the phone?”

“’Course it was.” Homer had a mason jar of clear liquid in his left hand. “Here.” He shoved it toward Carson.

Carson eyed the jar doubtfully. “What’s this?”

“This is what you came here to get.” Homer grabbed Carson’s hand and slapped the jar into it.

“No kidding.” Carson held the jar up toward the party lights in the distance. “Homer Gilmore’s magic moonshine?”

“The one and only.” Homer spoke proudly, puffing out his scrawny chest. “Truth is, I like your style, kid. And here’s what I want you to do. Try a taste or two. See what you think. Then we can talk.”

“I’m sorry.” Carson actually did sound regretful. “It doesn’t work that way.” He tried to hand the jar back.

Homer refused to take it. “I say how it works. Taste it.”

“Look, we need a meeting. A real meeting. Yes, there should be sampling, but formal sampling, in a professional setting. And chemical analysis, of course—but all that comes later. First, how about we meet for dinner and we can discuss—”

“Hold on.” Homer put up a hand. “We’ll get to the talk and the dang analysis. But first, you try it. This deal goes nowhere until you do.”

“Homer, you’re not listening to me. I can’t just—”

“Nope. Stop. You heard what I said. Have yourself a taste. After that, we’ll talk.”

“When, exactly, will we talk?”

“Don’t get pushy, kid. I’ll be in touch.”

Carson opened his mouth to say something else—but then shut it without saying anything. Tessa got that. What was the point? Homer wasn’t listening. With a wink and a nod in her direction, the old man turned and walked away. Tessa and Carson stared after him as he vanished into the darkness of the trees.

Baffled, Carson stared down at the jar in his hand. “I don’t believe this.”

Tessa dropped to the blanket again. “It’s Homer. What can you expect?”

“You think he might be crazy?”

“Of course not. He’s a little peculiar, that’s all. Being an oddball doesn’t make you crazy. Kayla had it right. He really does have a good heart.”

“If you say so.” But he seemed far from convinced. She patted the space beside her. He folded his tall frame down next to her. “So...” He set the jar on the blanket next to her hat. For several seconds, they stared at it together. Over near the dance floor, the band launched into the next number.

Tessa laughed when she recognized the song. “That’s ‘Alcohol’ by Brad Paisley. Perfect, huh?”

Carson slanted her a look full of mischief and delicious badness. “Want to try it?”

She did want to try it. She was really, really curious—just to know how it might taste, to maybe get a sense of whether or not any of the outrageous rumors about it might be true.

“Tessa?” he prompted when she failed to answer him.

She tried to remind herself of all the reasons that taking a chance on Homer’s moonshine was not a good idea. “It could be dangerous...”

“You really think it’s all that bad?”

“I didn’t say bad. But you’ve heard the stories.”

He flapped his arms. “Bok-bok-bok.”

She laughed and gave his shoulder a playful shove. “Don’t make chicken sounds at me. I’m being responsible.”

He leaned a little closer. “And what fun is that?”

Oh, she did like him. She liked him a lot—liked him more and more the longer she was with him. He was not only hot. He was fun and smart and perceptive.

And a very good kisser.

Did he see in her eyes that she was thinking about kissing him? Seemed like he must have, because he leaned even closer and brushed a second kiss against her mouth.

So good.

His lips settled more firmly on hers. She sighed in pure delight and had to resist the sharp desire to slide a hand up around his neck and pull him closer still.

She was probably in big trouble.

But the more she got to know him, the less she feared her attraction to him and the more it just felt right to be sitting beside him under the stars with the band playing country favorites. The night had a glow about it, even here in the shadows on their private little square of blanket. She was having so much fun with him, loving every minute of this night. She never wanted it to end. She wanted to sit here and enjoy the man beside her and maybe, a little later, to get up and dance some more. And after that, to steal another kiss.

And another after that.

He reached for the mason jar and unscrewed the lid.

She leaned close and whispered, “You shouldn’t have done that. It’s all over now. Our lives will never be the same.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “The temptation is just too great. I can’t resist.” He sniffed at the open jar. “Smells like a peach.” He tipped his head to the side, his expression suddenly far away. “I’ve always loved peaches.”

“Peaches? No, really?”

“Really.” He offered her the jar.

She took it and sniffed the contents for herself. “Hmm. Smells like summer.”

“What’d I tell you?”

“But not peaches. Blackberries. Just a hint.” She really wanted to taste it now. “I adore blackberries. They’re my favorite fruit.”

He wrapped his big hand over hers, and they held the jar together. He sniffed again, then insisted, “Admit it. It smells like peaches.”

“No, Carson.” She shook a finger at him. “Blackberries.”

“Peaches.”

“Blackberries. And look.” She pulled the jar free of his grip and held it up to the party lights. “It even has a faint purple tint. Can’t you see it?”

He took it from her hand and raised it high to decide for himself. “Looks more golden to me.” He faked a serious expression. “And really, it would be a bad idea to taste it. Right?”

“Right. Bad idea to—Carson!” She let out a silly shriek as he took a careful sip from the jar. And then she leaned closer and asked, wide-eyed, “Well?”

He swallowed. Slowly. “That’s good. Really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Blackberries, right?” She nodded, holding his gaze, certain she could get him to nod along with her.

But his head went the other way—side to side. “Peaches. Definitely. And a hint of a moonshine burn going down. Gives it a nice kick.”

“You’re just playing with me.”

He looked slightly wounded. “Never.”

Only one way to make sure. “Give me that.”

He held it away. “You’d better not. You never know what might happen.”

“Knock it off, Carson. Hand it over.”

“Whoa. Suddenly you’re a tough girl.”

“That’s right. You don’t want to mess with me.”

“Never, ever would I mess with you.” His voice was so smooth and manly, with just the perfect hint of roughness underneath. He gazed at her so solemnly. She really wanted to kiss him again.

Better not.

She reached for the moonshine instead. That time, he surrendered it. She put the jar to her lips and took a teeny, tiny sip.

Flavor bloomed on her tongue. A hint of sweet, summer fruit, and then wonderful heat going down. “Oh, yes. It’s good.”

“Told you so.”

She gave a fist-pump. “Blackberry! Yes!” She sipped a little more, savoring the taste, relishing the lovely burn—and then handed it back to him.

A wonderful, sexy laugh escaped him. She laughed, too, the sound husky to her own ears.

He was watching her so closely, as though he couldn’t get enough of just looking at her. She stared right back at him, a warm glow all through her. It was beautiful. Perfect.

She was lost in his eyes.