"For coffee, I'll forget that I'm not exactly at my best." She sat at the butcher block table and watched him remove two large foam cups of coffee, as well as creamer and sugar, from the bag. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Grabbing a handful of napkins, he reached into the larger bag and pulled out a few more items. Finally he smiled and showed her a box of powdered sugar doughnuts. "I figured you were stopping at the store last night to get supplies before you were…interrupted. So I picked up some things to tide you over."
She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised he'd shown up at her door, bringing her exactly what she needed. He had a track record of doing just that: flowers on prom night, coffee and toilet paper today. Touched by his thoughtfulness, she murmured, "This was very nice of you. I'd almost decided to try to drive down to the store."
"Now you can put it off another day or so, until your foot's okay." He cast a quick look at her ankle.
"It's not bad at all," she insisted. Stirring some cream into her coffee she sipped it, almost sighing with pleasure. "Diner coffee. Is there anything better?"
"Diner pie. My cousin Virgil's wife makes the best peach pie in the state of Georgia."
She pursed her lips and shook her head. "No way could it beat my grandmother's pecan. We used to go out to her daddy's old farm outside of town every year when we'd visit for Thanksgiving. My dad would tie ropes to the branches and we'd shake the nuts onto tarps on the ground. Then Grandma would take them home and dry them to last her the year."
She thought for a moment of the lovely afternoons in the orchard. Her grandmother would talk about the old days, and the last little piece of her family's farm—the orchard—which she'd held onto and promised to leave to Emma. She inhaled deeply, almost smelling the fragrance of Emmajean's baking. "She'd always have a fresh pecan pie waiting when we came for our summer visit. I'm going to dig through her recipes as soon as I can figure out where she hid them and make one of those pies."
"I'd like to taste a piece of pie you baked."
He obviously remembered her lack of ability in the kitchen. She didn't tell him about her Manhattan cooking school experiment… so she wouldn't have to tell him she'd, uh, failed.
"I might not have Grandma Emmajean's creative flare, but I've learned to follow a recipe to the last pinch. I do okay."
"Maybe I'll risk my life someday by letting you bake for me." The twinkle in his eye took any sting from his words.
"If somebody had told me a month ago that I'd be serving up pie to you in my grandmother's kitchen this summer, I'd have thought they'd been hitting the kind of moonshine the old-timers used to brew up in the hills," she muttered.
"They still do."
She raised a curious brow.
"My uncle Rafe and his brood live up there."
More Walkers. Why was she not surprised.
Johnny drank his own coffee, then got up to put away the groceries. She watched him silently for a moment, seeing glimpses in his strong profile of the teenager she'd known.
Yesterday, wearing a dress shirt and trousers, he'd been conservative, powerful and mature. Not to mention gorgeous.
Today, dressed in faded, worn jeans and a tight white T-shirt that did sinful things to the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders, he was downright devastating. Unshaven, rugged, completely masculine. Yet he looked perfectly comfortable in the kitchen, putting milk, juice and eggs in the fridge, taking care of her like he would any old friend who'd been laid up.
Only they weren't quite old friends, were they? And being with Johnny didn't exactly make her think of being laid up. Just laid, maybe.
Don't even go there.
No, friendship couldn't describe what was between Emma and Johnny. There was something else, something instinctive and deep. It had been present from the very beginning, even while she'd been dating his brother and he'd been playing the role of town rebel to the hilt.
It
Grabbing a handful of napkins, he reached into the larger bag and pulled out a few more items. Finally he smiled and showed her a box of powdered sugar doughnuts. "I figured you were stopping at the store last night to get supplies before you were…interrupted. So I picked up some things to tide you over."
She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised he'd shown up at her door, bringing her exactly what she needed. He had a track record of doing just that: flowers on prom night, coffee and toilet paper today. Touched by his thoughtfulness, she murmured, "This was very nice of you. I'd almost decided to try to drive down to the store."
"Now you can put it off another day or so, until your foot's okay." He cast a quick look at her ankle.
"It's not bad at all," she insisted. Stirring some cream into her coffee she sipped it, almost sighing with pleasure. "Diner coffee. Is there anything better?"
"Diner pie. My cousin Virgil's wife makes the best peach pie in the state of Georgia."
She pursed her lips and shook her head. "No way could it beat my grandmother's pecan. We used to go out to her daddy's old farm outside of town every year when we'd visit for Thanksgiving. My dad would tie ropes to the branches and we'd shake the nuts onto tarps on the ground. Then Grandma would take them home and dry them to last her the year."
She thought for a moment of the lovely afternoons in the orchard. Her grandmother would talk about the old days, and the last little piece of her family's farm—the orchard—which she'd held onto and promised to leave to Emma. She inhaled deeply, almost smelling the fragrance of Emmajean's baking. "She'd always have a fresh pecan pie waiting when we came for our summer visit. I'm going to dig through her recipes as soon as I can figure out where she hid them and make one of those pies."
"I'd like to taste a piece of pie you baked."
He obviously remembered her lack of ability in the kitchen. She didn't tell him about her Manhattan cooking school experiment… so she wouldn't have to tell him she'd, uh, failed.
"I might not have Grandma Emmajean's creative flare, but I've learned to follow a recipe to the last pinch. I do okay."
"Maybe I'll risk my life someday by letting you bake for me." The twinkle in his eye took any sting from his words.
"If somebody had told me a month ago that I'd be serving up pie to you in my grandmother's kitchen this summer, I'd have thought they'd been hitting the kind of moonshine the old-timers used to brew up in the hills," she muttered.
"They still do."
She raised a curious brow.
"My uncle Rafe and his brood live up there."
More Walkers. Why was she not surprised.
Johnny drank his own coffee, then got up to put away the groceries. She watched him silently for a moment, seeing glimpses in his strong profile of the teenager she'd known.
Yesterday, wearing a dress shirt and trousers, he'd been conservative, powerful and mature. Not to mention gorgeous.
Today, dressed in faded, worn jeans and a tight white T-shirt that did sinful things to the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders, he was downright devastating. Unshaven, rugged, completely masculine. Yet he looked perfectly comfortable in the kitchen, putting milk, juice and eggs in the fridge, taking care of her like he would any old friend who'd been laid up.
Only they weren't quite old friends, were they? And being with Johnny didn't exactly make her think of being laid up. Just laid, maybe.
Don't even go there.
No, friendship couldn't describe what was between Emma and Johnny. There was something else, something instinctive and deep. It had been present from the very beginning, even while she'd been dating his brother and he'd been playing the role of town rebel to the hilt.
It
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