one. I’ll have someone take care of this in the morning. It’s late and you’re exhausted. Let me drive you home.”
She didn’t even try to talk him out of it; she just pushed open the door and climbed out of her car. “Thank you,” she said, twisting off the key and handing it to him. “I’m so tired.”
“I hear you,” he groaned.
She followed him around the curve of the driveway to where his car was parked, and she let out a long, appealing sigh once they were inside.
“We should have heat in just a minute,” he promised after turning the ignition. “Have you had dinner?”
“Dinner?” she replied. “What’s that?”
Jackson unbuttoned his overcoat, then slipped his cell phone from the breast pocket of his jacket. “I just ordered takeout,” he told her. “I’ll add to it, and we can have dinner together at your place.”
She appeared slightly taken aback, but she didn’t object.
“Hi, Serena. It’s Jackson Drake again. Will you double that order I just placed? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes to pick it up.” Pressing the phone against his shoulder, he asked Emma, “You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?”
“Nope. Full carnivore.”
“Shrimp?”
“Yum.”
“Excellent.” He brought the cell back to his cheek and thanked the hostess before disconnecting the call. “So what’s on the menu?” she asked him. “Shrimp?”
“Chu Chee.”
“Oh. Do I like that?”
“Yes, you do,” he replied, punctuating it with a wide grin. “It’s one of your favorites, in fact.”
“Good to know,” she replied, her head bobbing in a slow nod.
Emma was quiet on the drive over to the restaurant, and when Jackson returned to the running car with their dinner in hand, she was curled against the passenger window, sound asleep. He almost hated to open the door and wake her, but the sting of recent cooler temperatures made him do it anyway.
He set the bag on the back seat and slid behind the wheel. As he shifted the car into gear, Emma’s green eyes fluttered open and she half-smiled at him.
“Chotchke,” she muttered. “Smells good.”
“Not Chotchke,” he chuckled. “That’s what my buddy’s Jewish mother keeps on her mantle. Chu Chee .”
“Right.” She closed her eyes again as she asked him, “What is that, anyway?”
“Shrimp,” he answered, and she nodded. “With snow peas, string beans and green pepper in coconut milk and red curry.”
“Mm. You’re right,” she said without opening her eyes. “I do like it.”
Jackson sent a grin in her general direction. “Emma?”
“Mm?”
“Where do you live?”
After a moment’s processing, she sat straight up and giggled. “Oh, sorry. Make a left at the light.”
Emma’s building reminded Jackson of the tiny brownstone he and Desiree kept in Manhattan during their short time there. A string of six entrances, each of them with five brick steps leading to their leaded-glass doors; Emma’s was the one on the end.
The interior was warm and inviting, more like a cozy library than a woman’s home, a startling contrast to the large, gold filigree heart hanging on the door by a paisley wired bow. He’d expected something different somehow. Ribbons and lace perhaps? Pastel colors and floral prints?
No , he decided. Not that.
But certainly not the rich color palette grounding sturdy-yet-comfortable furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a heavy stone fireplace.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she told him. “I’ve got to do the insulin thing. Then I’ll get some plates and silverware.”
Jackson watched her until she disappeared around the corner. He recalled a family friend who’d lost her eyesight to diabetes when he was just a kid. And he thought he remembered that his paternal grandfather had actually lost a leg because of diabetes that wasn’t kept under control. He didn’t know much more about the disease than that, but Emma appeared to have it well in hand. At least, there were no
She didn’t even try to talk him out of it; she just pushed open the door and climbed out of her car. “Thank you,” she said, twisting off the key and handing it to him. “I’m so tired.”
“I hear you,” he groaned.
She followed him around the curve of the driveway to where his car was parked, and she let out a long, appealing sigh once they were inside.
“We should have heat in just a minute,” he promised after turning the ignition. “Have you had dinner?”
“Dinner?” she replied. “What’s that?”
Jackson unbuttoned his overcoat, then slipped his cell phone from the breast pocket of his jacket. “I just ordered takeout,” he told her. “I’ll add to it, and we can have dinner together at your place.”
She appeared slightly taken aback, but she didn’t object.
“Hi, Serena. It’s Jackson Drake again. Will you double that order I just placed? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes to pick it up.” Pressing the phone against his shoulder, he asked Emma, “You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?”
“Nope. Full carnivore.”
“Shrimp?”
“Yum.”
“Excellent.” He brought the cell back to his cheek and thanked the hostess before disconnecting the call. “So what’s on the menu?” she asked him. “Shrimp?”
“Chu Chee.”
“Oh. Do I like that?”
“Yes, you do,” he replied, punctuating it with a wide grin. “It’s one of your favorites, in fact.”
“Good to know,” she replied, her head bobbing in a slow nod.
Emma was quiet on the drive over to the restaurant, and when Jackson returned to the running car with their dinner in hand, she was curled against the passenger window, sound asleep. He almost hated to open the door and wake her, but the sting of recent cooler temperatures made him do it anyway.
He set the bag on the back seat and slid behind the wheel. As he shifted the car into gear, Emma’s green eyes fluttered open and she half-smiled at him.
“Chotchke,” she muttered. “Smells good.”
“Not Chotchke,” he chuckled. “That’s what my buddy’s Jewish mother keeps on her mantle. Chu Chee .”
“Right.” She closed her eyes again as she asked him, “What is that, anyway?”
“Shrimp,” he answered, and she nodded. “With snow peas, string beans and green pepper in coconut milk and red curry.”
“Mm. You’re right,” she said without opening her eyes. “I do like it.”
Jackson sent a grin in her general direction. “Emma?”
“Mm?”
“Where do you live?”
After a moment’s processing, she sat straight up and giggled. “Oh, sorry. Make a left at the light.”
Emma’s building reminded Jackson of the tiny brownstone he and Desiree kept in Manhattan during their short time there. A string of six entrances, each of them with five brick steps leading to their leaded-glass doors; Emma’s was the one on the end.
The interior was warm and inviting, more like a cozy library than a woman’s home, a startling contrast to the large, gold filigree heart hanging on the door by a paisley wired bow. He’d expected something different somehow. Ribbons and lace perhaps? Pastel colors and floral prints?
No , he decided. Not that.
But certainly not the rich color palette grounding sturdy-yet-comfortable furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a heavy stone fireplace.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she told him. “I’ve got to do the insulin thing. Then I’ll get some plates and silverware.”
Jackson watched her until she disappeared around the corner. He recalled a family friend who’d lost her eyesight to diabetes when he was just a kid. And he thought he remembered that his paternal grandfather had actually lost a leg because of diabetes that wasn’t kept under control. He didn’t know much more about the disease than that, but Emma appeared to have it well in hand. At least, there were no
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