EVEN
E
LAM’S
girlfriend.
Bronte feared that her smile was too bright—too telling—because P.D.’s eyes sparked with her own brand of humor.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
After a firm shake, P.D. tucked her fingers into her pockets. Jace leaned against a nearby counter. Now that introductions were made, it was easy to see that the familiarity Bronte had sensed was one of friendship rather than intimacy.
“It sounds like you’ve had a rough welcome to the area,” P.D. said.
Bronte offered a rueful sound that was meant to be a laugh, but came out far more telling than it should have done. “I’m hoping Annie gets feeling better soon.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Oh, I—”
“No. She hasn’t,” Jace offered before Bronte could think of a suitable noncommittal reply.
“I’ll warm up some dinner.”
“No, I—”
“She’d love that,” Jace said, interrupting her again. Pushing away from the counter, he moved to pull out a chair for Bronte, leaning close to murmur, “Go with it. It’s turkey night at Vern’s.”
Bronte didn’t have a clue what that was supposed to mean, but with Jace standing so near, his lips next to her ear, the tiny hairs on her nape seemed to jangle in delight. She couldn’t think of a response, so she sat down.
It didn’t take long to see that—although this might be a bachelors’ stronghold—P.D. knew her way around the kitchen. Within minutes, a steaming open-faced sandwich with ciabatta bread, smoked turkey, and roasted vegetables smothered in a rich cranberry chutney was placed in front of her.
“My deconstructed Thanksgiving-leftover sandwich.”
Bronte had thought that she was too keyed up to eat anything, but the rich scents rising from her plate seemed to unlock her appetite. Instantly, the heady combination of hickory-smoked turkey and chewy bread, earthy sage and citrus-kissed cranberry brought her taste buds back to life.
“Oh, wow,” she mumbled around the first bite, then quickly covered her mouth at the breach of manners.
P.D. laughed. “That’s the kind of response I like.” She made a shooing gesture toward Bronte’s plate. “Don’t stop. We’ve all eaten, so we can hold up our end of the conversation until you’re done.”
And they did. While Bronte slaked her raging hunger, P.D. used the time to regale them with funny stories about the restaurant and the “kittens” that Barry had coaxed out from under the cabin deck.
“Except they weren’t kittens,” Jace said. He slouched in his chair, his ankle resting on his knee, one elbow propped on the table. A slow smile spread over his lips and Bronte felt as if she were struck dumb. The expression was so genuine, so wistful, so . . .
kind
. . . as he thought of his little brother.
The food seemed to lurch in her stomach. What would she give if, just once, someone appeared even half that . . .
contented
as they thought of her? Even in the first few,passionate years of her marriage, she couldn’t remember Phillip ever reacting that way. He’d been more possessive, his attitude more of a “look what I’m nailing on a regular basis” kind of smirk.
In time, she’d begun to hate that expression.
“He’d found a litter of skunks wedged into a hole under one of the supports,” P.D. was saying, her hands gesturing as she spoke.
But Bronte was still watching Jace, seeing the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
“I nearly had a heart attack,” P.D. said, a hand flattening over her chest, “because all of the windows were open and Barry was petting the baby skunk and scratching its ears. Apparently, he couldn’t figure out why the stupid cat wouldn’t purr when he was being so nice to it.” P.D. took a quick breath. “As calmly as I could, I told him it was time for dinner and to leave the ‘kitty’ and come inside. Barry reasonably informed me that it wasn’t even close to dinnertime—and since he’s got us all trained to his schedule, I couldn’t
E
LAM’S
girlfriend.
Bronte feared that her smile was too bright—too telling—because P.D.’s eyes sparked with her own brand of humor.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
After a firm shake, P.D. tucked her fingers into her pockets. Jace leaned against a nearby counter. Now that introductions were made, it was easy to see that the familiarity Bronte had sensed was one of friendship rather than intimacy.
“It sounds like you’ve had a rough welcome to the area,” P.D. said.
Bronte offered a rueful sound that was meant to be a laugh, but came out far more telling than it should have done. “I’m hoping Annie gets feeling better soon.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Oh, I—”
“No. She hasn’t,” Jace offered before Bronte could think of a suitable noncommittal reply.
“I’ll warm up some dinner.”
“No, I—”
“She’d love that,” Jace said, interrupting her again. Pushing away from the counter, he moved to pull out a chair for Bronte, leaning close to murmur, “Go with it. It’s turkey night at Vern’s.”
Bronte didn’t have a clue what that was supposed to mean, but with Jace standing so near, his lips next to her ear, the tiny hairs on her nape seemed to jangle in delight. She couldn’t think of a response, so she sat down.
It didn’t take long to see that—although this might be a bachelors’ stronghold—P.D. knew her way around the kitchen. Within minutes, a steaming open-faced sandwich with ciabatta bread, smoked turkey, and roasted vegetables smothered in a rich cranberry chutney was placed in front of her.
“My deconstructed Thanksgiving-leftover sandwich.”
Bronte had thought that she was too keyed up to eat anything, but the rich scents rising from her plate seemed to unlock her appetite. Instantly, the heady combination of hickory-smoked turkey and chewy bread, earthy sage and citrus-kissed cranberry brought her taste buds back to life.
“Oh, wow,” she mumbled around the first bite, then quickly covered her mouth at the breach of manners.
P.D. laughed. “That’s the kind of response I like.” She made a shooing gesture toward Bronte’s plate. “Don’t stop. We’ve all eaten, so we can hold up our end of the conversation until you’re done.”
And they did. While Bronte slaked her raging hunger, P.D. used the time to regale them with funny stories about the restaurant and the “kittens” that Barry had coaxed out from under the cabin deck.
“Except they weren’t kittens,” Jace said. He slouched in his chair, his ankle resting on his knee, one elbow propped on the table. A slow smile spread over his lips and Bronte felt as if she were struck dumb. The expression was so genuine, so wistful, so . . .
kind
. . . as he thought of his little brother.
The food seemed to lurch in her stomach. What would she give if, just once, someone appeared even half that . . .
contented
as they thought of her? Even in the first few,passionate years of her marriage, she couldn’t remember Phillip ever reacting that way. He’d been more possessive, his attitude more of a “look what I’m nailing on a regular basis” kind of smirk.
In time, she’d begun to hate that expression.
“He’d found a litter of skunks wedged into a hole under one of the supports,” P.D. was saying, her hands gesturing as she spoke.
But Bronte was still watching Jace, seeing the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
“I nearly had a heart attack,” P.D. said, a hand flattening over her chest, “because all of the windows were open and Barry was petting the baby skunk and scratching its ears. Apparently, he couldn’t figure out why the stupid cat wouldn’t purr when he was being so nice to it.” P.D. took a quick breath. “As calmly as I could, I told him it was time for dinner and to leave the ‘kitty’ and come inside. Barry reasonably informed me that it wasn’t even close to dinnertime—and since he’s got us all trained to his schedule, I couldn’t
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