jars.”
“I might have to ask her. Where did she go?”
“She had to make a phone call, but it’ll only take her a few minutes.”
He set the burgers and buns on the table, then walked over to the sink to set down the spatula. Gretchen watched him as she gripped the top of the pickle jar. Then, as she met the resistance of the unbroken seal, she stopped. It was ridiculous. Downright stupid, even. She could open her own damn jars.
The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Can you open this for me?”
As soon as he turned, a questioning expression on his face, she wished she could take the question back. If she told him to never mind and popped the seal, he’d think she was an idiot. Instead she was forced to hold up the jar as he moved close to take it from her.
He had nice hands, she thought as he gripped the jar. They were large, with long fingers that curled over the lid. As he began to twist, she let her gaze travel up his tan forearm to the well-toned biceps below his T-shirt sleeve. As she stared, the muscles flexed and she wished she had more condiment jars in need of opening.
The loud pop of the seal made her jump, and Gretchen stifled an embarrassed chuckle.
“Thanks,” she muttered, reaching for the jar. She was afraid if she said any more or raised her voice, she’d sound as breathless as she felt. He’d opened a pickle jar, for goodness’ sake. There was nothing sexual about that.
But when her hand went to close around the glass and her fingers had to practically thread through his in order to take it, she felt a rush of heat through her body that couldn’t be described any other way
but
sexual.
Was it her imagination or did his hand linger a few seconds longer than necessary?
“I’m just in time,” Gram said from the doorway. “Those burgers look perfectly grilled, Alex.”
He winked at Gretchen before turning away, and all she could do was stand there and hope Gram hadn’t seen it. Any of it.
When they sat down to eat, Gretchen kept her eyes on the food. Maybe the wink was just a way of saying the
you’re welcome
to her
thank you
, without having to tell Gram she hadn’t been able to open the jar of pickles. Or maybe she hadn’t imagined his touch lingering, and he was flirting with her.
What the hell had she been thinking? It was one thing to want a man to open her pickle jar, so to speak, but Alex couldn’t be that guy. She’d even explained that to Jen and Kelly. But somehow, when she was around him, she forgot there were logical reasons she should be opening her own damn pickle jar.
“This macaroni salad is amazing,” Alex said, dragging Gretchen away from her thoughts.
“It’s kind of famous around here,” Gram said, not even trying for modest.
“I’m not surprised. I thought the burgers would be the star of the show because they’re delicious, but this macaroni salad is, without a doubt, the best I’ve ever had. What do you put in it?”
“She won’t even tell me,” Gretchen said.
“I don’t trust you not to tell Kelly or Jen. And they’ll tell somebody else—maybe even Cass, who’ll start making it at O’Rourke’s—and then everybody will have it.”
“Gram likes when people make a big deal out of it at potluck dinners.” Gretchen smiled. “If we opened a caféthat served nothing but Cheryl Decker’s meatballs with a side of Gram’s macaroni salad, we’d probably be rich.”
“I remember the meatballs from the Eagles Fest spaghetti dinner,” Alex said. “They were extremely good, but I think I’d go with Ida’s macaroni salad as the entrée, with a side of Cheryl’s meatballs.”
Gram beamed, which made Gretchen want to roll her eyes. But she noticed he left a little more lettuce on his plate than usual, choosing seconds on the macaroni salad instead, which meant he wasn’t just blowing smoke. He must really like it a lot to go off his usual meal plan.
When they’d cleaned up the kitchen, the last thing
“I might have to ask her. Where did she go?”
“She had to make a phone call, but it’ll only take her a few minutes.”
He set the burgers and buns on the table, then walked over to the sink to set down the spatula. Gretchen watched him as she gripped the top of the pickle jar. Then, as she met the resistance of the unbroken seal, she stopped. It was ridiculous. Downright stupid, even. She could open her own damn jars.
The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Can you open this for me?”
As soon as he turned, a questioning expression on his face, she wished she could take the question back. If she told him to never mind and popped the seal, he’d think she was an idiot. Instead she was forced to hold up the jar as he moved close to take it from her.
He had nice hands, she thought as he gripped the jar. They were large, with long fingers that curled over the lid. As he began to twist, she let her gaze travel up his tan forearm to the well-toned biceps below his T-shirt sleeve. As she stared, the muscles flexed and she wished she had more condiment jars in need of opening.
The loud pop of the seal made her jump, and Gretchen stifled an embarrassed chuckle.
“Thanks,” she muttered, reaching for the jar. She was afraid if she said any more or raised her voice, she’d sound as breathless as she felt. He’d opened a pickle jar, for goodness’ sake. There was nothing sexual about that.
But when her hand went to close around the glass and her fingers had to practically thread through his in order to take it, she felt a rush of heat through her body that couldn’t be described any other way
but
sexual.
Was it her imagination or did his hand linger a few seconds longer than necessary?
“I’m just in time,” Gram said from the doorway. “Those burgers look perfectly grilled, Alex.”
He winked at Gretchen before turning away, and all she could do was stand there and hope Gram hadn’t seen it. Any of it.
When they sat down to eat, Gretchen kept her eyes on the food. Maybe the wink was just a way of saying the
you’re welcome
to her
thank you
, without having to tell Gram she hadn’t been able to open the jar of pickles. Or maybe she hadn’t imagined his touch lingering, and he was flirting with her.
What the hell had she been thinking? It was one thing to want a man to open her pickle jar, so to speak, but Alex couldn’t be that guy. She’d even explained that to Jen and Kelly. But somehow, when she was around him, she forgot there were logical reasons she should be opening her own damn pickle jar.
“This macaroni salad is amazing,” Alex said, dragging Gretchen away from her thoughts.
“It’s kind of famous around here,” Gram said, not even trying for modest.
“I’m not surprised. I thought the burgers would be the star of the show because they’re delicious, but this macaroni salad is, without a doubt, the best I’ve ever had. What do you put in it?”
“She won’t even tell me,” Gretchen said.
“I don’t trust you not to tell Kelly or Jen. And they’ll tell somebody else—maybe even Cass, who’ll start making it at O’Rourke’s—and then everybody will have it.”
“Gram likes when people make a big deal out of it at potluck dinners.” Gretchen smiled. “If we opened a caféthat served nothing but Cheryl Decker’s meatballs with a side of Gram’s macaroni salad, we’d probably be rich.”
“I remember the meatballs from the Eagles Fest spaghetti dinner,” Alex said. “They were extremely good, but I think I’d go with Ida’s macaroni salad as the entrée, with a side of Cheryl’s meatballs.”
Gram beamed, which made Gretchen want to roll her eyes. But she noticed he left a little more lettuce on his plate than usual, choosing seconds on the macaroni salad instead, which meant he wasn’t just blowing smoke. He must really like it a lot to go off his usual meal plan.
When they’d cleaned up the kitchen, the last thing
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