Читать книгу Meet Me in Paris - Simona Taylor - Страница 12

Cruel Words and Accidental Kisses

T he next day, Kendra was dead on time, even without getting paranoid over the alarm clock. The reduced Sunday traffic made the commute a breeze. She even had time to enjoy the short walk into his street and listening to the sound of children laughing in the gardens around her. They made her think of the forlorn seesaw in Trey’s backyard, and his pained response to her innocent question. Something told her he’d picked this neighborhood for a reason, consciously or subconsciously. Whether he knew it or not, Trey Hammond was nesting.

She walked boldly up his stone path, and again he met her at the door. “Morning. Come on in.” He was doing his darnedest not to let on how happy he was to see her, but the curve at the corners of his lips gave him away.

“Can’t sneak up on you, huh?”

“You might be able to, once I get my curtains. It’s good to see you. I—”

“Thought I wouldn’t show?” she challenged.

“I knew you would. You promised. I was about to say I was waiting on you to get the waffles going. Batter’s done, just sitting there. I thought you’d like them hot.”

“Waffles?”

“It’s Sunday. Technically, you shouldn’t be working at all. I thought a hearty breakfast would start us off right.”

“Oh.” That sounded good—and intimate.

He noticed she was holding something in her hands. “What’s that?”

She held up the small paper bag. “Nothing special. There’s a fruit stand a little way up the road. I got two overripe mangoes for your birds. I thought they might…” She trailed off. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it felt idiotic.

“Oh, man, that’s wonderful.” He opened the bag and peered inside. “They’ll love these. Thank you.” He headed for the front garden. She noticed that—bless him—he was wearing the same pair of jeans as yesterday, and though slightly more grubby than they had been, they had the same fabulous fit. He’d used another clean white tank top from his stash. He really needed to buy his clothes in a larger size.

She stayed where she was, glad his back was turned so he wouldn’t see how much she was enjoying the sight of him walking barefoot in the grass, stretching his arm upward to spike the mangoes on the jagged branches, where only the limp, dried-out peels of yesterday’s bananas were left. As he walked, butterflies and bugs rose from the grass and swirled around him like leaves caught up in a dust devil. He dusted off his hands with purpose as he returned to her. “Good. We’ve fed God’s little creatures, now let’s see what we can do about ourselves.”

Sounded good to her.

He walked her into the kitchen. Among all the mess and clutter of yesterday, there was a clean spot on the table. Upon that, he’d laid out cream, honey and fruit preserves.

“Been to the supermarket, I see.”

“The guys hooked up my gas yesterday evening, and then it hit me that the stove wouldn’t do much good if I didn’t have anything to cook on it. So I went on a shopping spree.” He threw open the doors of his stainless steel fridge and gestured inside like a male version of Vanna White. It was loaded to the gills.

“You going to eat all that before it spoils?”

“I’m sure as hell gonna try. So…” He washed his hands at the sink and dried them on a dish towel. “You eat waffles, right?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Nobody in their right mind.”

She watched him work. There was a cast-iron waffle iron on the stove. She could tell by its rich, dark patina that it had seen some use. “Your mother’s?”

He pretended to be offended. “Oh, please, girl. Just because a man knows his way about the kitchen doesn’t mean he’s swiped half his mother’s stuff. I’ve had this iron since college. There’s a griddle and a skillet to go with it, too.”

She was hesitant to risk further offending him by asking whether he’d made the batter from scratch, but then she spotted the mess of flour and sugar on the counter and had her answer. There was a sizzle as the batter hit the waffle iron, and like Pavlov’s dog, Kendra licked her lips. This man was always offering her food. Her one weakness. How’d he know? She patted her hips and murmured, “Looks awful fattening.”

He took his attention away from his cooking to look her over as slowly as he had in the restaurant. “Fishing for compliments?”

“I was certainly not fishing,” she huffed. He must think she was so vain. His crack about emerald-studded handcuffs came back to her, and she wondered, was this how it was going to be today?

“I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I was trying to pay you a compliment, but it came out wrong. You look great. You really don’t need to worry about your weight.”

If he only knew.

“Sit down. These’ll be ready in a sec. Pour yourself a cup.”

She sat obediently, lulled by the scent of berries, the warmth of the kitchen and his quiet efficiency. He served her first, urging her to eat up while her waffles were still hot, and in minutes his were done. He made congenial conversation, plying her with melted butter and honey, seeming anxious to make up for his rebuff of yesterday. Again, she sensed that loneliness rather than hunger was his motive for trying to prolong the meal. When they were done, she set down her cutlery with a satisfied sigh. She was proud of herself; she’d been relaxed enough not to feel the desire to go overboard with her eating. “Congratulate the chef for me.”

“I’ll pass it on as soon as I see him.” He lifted a newspaper off of a small stack. “Sunday paper?”

She had to put her foot down. “I’m here to work, Trey. Remember?” It was the first time she used his name out loud. How easily it came to her!

Trey replaced the paper, abashed. “Right. Sorry.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose with a purposeful, let’s-get-down-to-business gesture.

“’S okay.”

They rose together. “I cleaned up all the rubble and junk in the living room, so we can get straight to work.” He was already ahead of the game. The furniture was all laid out. Again, she noted his excellent taste in fine things. The sofa and armchairs were made of good leather and wood, with elegant, well-crafted side pieces. He’d gone as far as to hang a painting on a wall. It was African. Somali, she guessed.