Still Life in Brunswick Stew by Larissa Reinhart Page A

of metallic blue. Her eyes zeroed in on the muffins steaming on the counter. “You took my muffins out of the oven?”
    “You don’t want them to burn, sugar,” said Pearl.
    “I’ve been making muffins since I was six, and I haven’t burned them once.”
    “I’ve been cooking a bit longer than you, hon’.” Pearl shrugged. “You weren’t here, so I took them out. No big deal.”
    Casey’s lips disappeared inside her mouth. She marched to the counter and began pulling plates from the cupboard. I backed away from the scene and bumped into Luke.
    “Let’s go wash up.” He snagged my hand, dragging me through the kitchen doorway and into the living room. We turned down a pine-paneled hall leading to the bedrooms and bathroom. Grabbing my other hand, he backed me into the wall, and pinned my lower body with his legs.
    “I guess your definition of washing up is different than mine,” I said.
    He lowered his head, his breath caressed my face. “What are you doing? I told you how I felt about you talking to that kid and then you go to the musclehead’s house? And you’ve taken to stalking Max Avtaikin at church?”
    “It wasn’t stalking. Just coincidence. I saw your mom and JB there, too. And Shawna.”
    “Did you now?” His eyes shifted. “Isn’t that nice.”
    “They seemed a tad confused by our relationship.”
    “I don’t pay much attention to my stepdad. And you know my momma. She’s got her hands in so many organizations she doesn’t know if she’s coming or going.”
    “Oh, they just forgot we’re seeing each other?”
    “Well, sugar, I do work long hours. And although I’m temporarily living in their house, it doesn’t mean they keep tabs on me.”
    “So what is it we’re doing here, Luke? Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be public. Unless you call Sunday dinners at the farm public. Which oddly enough involves your boss.” I gave him my best what-do-you-say-to-that look.
    He raised my arms to wrap around his neck and skimmed his hands down my sides to rest at my hips. “Let’s not ruin the day by fussing,” he whispered. “We can talk about this another time.”
    “I’ll give up my fussing if you give up yours.” Considering the mess I got myself into the night before, I didn’t need any pot and kettle accusations.
    Besides, between the distraction of his stroking hands and sultry lips, I was having trouble concentrating on much else. When Luke turned on the heat, I melted faster than a Daytona Beach soft serve. And dangit, he knew it.
    “Agreed,” he said, tipping my chin up with one finger. “You owe me a better kiss than the one I got in the truck.”
    His lips descended, crushing mine. I snuggled into his body, eager to redeem myself. However, as willing as I was, my lips refused to perform.
    Like the dexterity of a two year old, my lips pursed and opened, sliding willy-nilly around Luke’s tender skin.
    “Did you have a shot of Novocain or something when I wasn’t looking?” Luke gave me a strange look, wiping his face on his arm.
    “I keep telling you something is wrong with me.”
    “The only thing wrong with you is your imagination. You need something to occupy your mind. You better figure out a new project. One that doesn’t involve painting me naked, by the way. That Greek body paint whatever is not going to happen.”
    I wiped the drool off on the back of my hand.
    “I’m going to clean myself up.” Shoving open the bathroom door, he shot a look at me over his shoulder. “Get those lips working. I’m becoming a very frustrated man.”
    I slumped against the wall as the bathroom door swung shut. Maybe he was right. I just needed a new project. I wanted to start the classical paintings, but it looked like Luke would need more convincing. And I found it difficult to concentrate on drawing with this funk hanging over me. I wished I could do more to help Eloise’s family. Uncle Will didn’t confirm he was ordering an autopsy.
    But he didn’t deny it