The House On The Creek Page 9

  “I guess I’m glad you’re back. After all. I mean, if it makes you happy.” She said, very polite, so she wouldn’t have to face this new surge of old desires.

  “Happy?” He echoed, as though the word made no sense.

  He shifted in the doorway, stretched out a hand, and trailed his thumb across her chin, through the trickle of pollen the geranium had left behind.

  Abby froze. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

  The ball of his thumb nudged at her lower lip. A spike of pure, undiluted lust made Abby gasp. Everett’s thumb shivered against her flesh, and then he stepped away, moving out of the heat and back into the shelter of the attic.

  “Your phones are ringing,” he said, cool and calm and expressionless.

  Abby could hear the distant shrilling that meant break time was over and clients were impatient. She opened her eyes, and pressed the back of one hand against her mouth, trying to smooth away the burning remnants of his caress.

  “I should get back,” she said, sounding just a little too brisk, even to her own ears.

  “I’ll see you this evening,” Everett replied. Casual as a saint, he dug car keys and shades from a pocket.

  “This evening,” Abby repeated. She pulled her hand from her mouth and cupped it at her side. “Ev?”

  He tilted his head in silent inquiry.

  “Thanks for listening.”

  Car keys dangled from long brown fingers, reflecting afternoon light. “Don’t fret yourself, Abby. The kid will turn out fine. You did.”

  “And you.”

  He smiled but didn’t reach to touch her again. He was halfway across the dusty attic floor before Abby called after.

  “Ev?”

  He paused in a swirl of dancing dust motes and glanced back.

  She grabbed her abandoned sandals and left the balcony. “You never said why you’d come?”

  “I did. Just to check in, Abby.”

  Abby stood, mute, and listened to the creak of the old staircase beneath his weight. After the moment of silence that followed she heard Jack call out a question.

  Curious, she leaned into the stairwell, but she couldn’t hear what answer, if any, Everett made.

  Just to check in. He’d stopped by just to check in. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. The Everett Anderson she’d grown up alongside, although both nosey and over protective, would never have admitted such a thing. In that, he’d changed.

  And, maybe, in other ways.

  He claimed he’d moved into his father’s house in search of peace. Everett at fifteen hadn’t believed the luxury of peace existed.

  He’d made her laugh, instead of giving in to the fight her bitter mood had demanded. He’d known enough to make her smile, make her feel, for the moment, better.

  Still leaning into the stairwell, Abby fought a grin.

  Dinner with the new, beautiful, grown up Everett Anderson just might be more than bearable.

  Chapter Eight

  “I THINK YOU’RE MAKING A MISTAKE.”

  Abby rummaged through the bathroom drawer. “It’s just a date, Jackson. How can I not own even one tube of lipstick?”

  “You don’t wear lipstick.” Jack pointed out. “And I was referring to my dinner, not yours.”

  “It’s pizza.” Just in case she’d somehow buried a tube in with the toothpaste and Tylenol, Abby peered into the medicine cabinet. “Again.”

  “Vegetarian. On wheat crust. What kind of mom orders vegetarian on wheat crust for her babysitter?”

  “I’m on a health kick. And Chris likes vegetarian. The babysitter will have to adapt.” Giving up on the faint hope of lipstick, Abby snatched an ancient bottle of hair spray and considered it through narrowed eyes.

  Jack took the bottle of hairspray from Abby’s hand. “You don’t wear that stuff, either. And it’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “I already phoned in the order.”

  “I meant about your dinner. You sure you want to do this?”

  “Dinner’s fine. Dinner’s good.” Abby studied herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. The butterflies in her stomach didn’t seem to show on her face.

  “Dinner’s good,” Jack agreed. “It’s the after dinner bit I’m worried about. The book the babysitter all night bit. I promise you he’s sorting through his bedside drawer right about now, and it’s not hairspray he’s looking for.”

  Abby groaned. “I need a girl friend.”

  “You’re stuck with me.” He followed Abby into the back hall. “And while I can’t help you pick out your shoes, I am handy with a router. I’m always on call for emergency baby sitting. And I’ve got a condom in my wallet if you haven’t your own in that envelope you call a purse.”

  “I’m provided for, thank you. Where’s Chris?” Maybe her son could help her pick out her shoes.

  “Setting up dirty Scrabble in the parlor.”

  “Very funny.” Trailing barefoot into the kitchen, she found Chris at work over the microwave. “Popcorn?”

  “Hi, Mom.” He smiled, and then shifted from foot to foot. “Jack said he was hungry and he didn’t want to wait for the healthy pizza. He brought Batman but we’re going to play Scrabble first.”

  She shot Jackson a look but his expression was bland.

  “Sounds like fun. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “We’re going to stay up until dawn.” Jack ruffled her son’s hair. “And have ice cream for breakfast.”

  “We’re out of ice cream.” Chris’s shoulders slumped.

  “I came prepared for anything. When your mom called I stocked the truck with triple brownie fudge.” He glanced at Abby. “I’ll go get it now. Give you two a moment to say goodnight.” He left them to the sound of popping corn.

  Chris stared down at the toes of his sneakers. Abby crossed the kitchen, and slung an arm around his waist.

  “Okay with this?”

  “It’s just a date, Mom. You’ve had one or two before.”

  “One, maybe.” Abby poked his ribs and he squirmed. “Don’t let Jack stay up all night or he’ll be cranky in the morning.”

  Chris scoffed. “He’ll be snoring before Batman’s halfway over.”

  “Just because I prefer my caped heros less depressive.” Jack ducked back into the kitchen, ice cream in hand. “Quick. It’s melting. Your guy’s here, Abby. Nice car, if you like fast.”

  Abby shot him a last look, and kissed her son. “Goodnight, boys. Behave.”

  “Goodnight, Mom,” they replied as one, and then forgot her for the beeping microwave.

  “You said dinner,” Abby grumbled. She glared through the window of Everett’s little car and out at the crowded parking lot. “You didn’t say anything about The Trellis.”

  “I believe they serve dinner at The Trellis,” Everett replied, amused by the uneasy tapping of her foot against the Spyder’s floor mat.

  “I thought you meant a steakhouse or Chinese or even fast food.”

  The rhythm of her foot increased. She wore black, clunky high heels that somehow made her look taller, and turned the curve of her slim ankle elegant at the same time. Everett couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from that ankle.

  He wanted to reach out and stroke the delicate curve, taste it with fingers and tongue.

  “Ev?”

  Everett closed his fingers hard on the wheel. “Fast food. Your dates usually court you in drive throughs, Abby?”

  “I don’t have time for dates.” She glared at him across the stick shift. “We can’t go to The Trellis, Ev. I’m not dressed for it.”

  “You look fine.” She looked perfect. The simple black sheath she wore hugged every delicate swell and was enough to drive a man wild. She’d even done something with her hair, pinned it back from her eyes, emphasizing the delicate bones in her face.

  And she smelled like gardenias.

  “People wear silk to The Trellis.” She argued. “Not second hand clothes
and discount shoes.”

  “I like those shoes.”

  Because he caught the gleam of panic in her eyes and understood, he captured one narrow hand and squeezed. “They’ve the best sausage chowder in the state. One taste and you’ll forget anything else.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she muttered, snatching her hands away. “My feet are killing me.”

  He laughed and hopped out into the evening. He opened her door and extended a hand, but she ignored his chivalry and climbed out on her own. Once out onto the asphalt she hesitated, eying the lights of Merchant’s Square with distrust.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He took her hand, and urged her gently across the parking lot. She huffed but didn’t struggle, although once or twice it looked as though she wanted to dig in those heels and turn stubborn.

  “Their bread has won awards,” he continued, determined to stay calm, although the slide of her hips in the dress made him want to pull her behind the nearest shrug and kiss her breathless.

  Ever since he’d left her in the empty attic rooms above her shop he’d been muzzy with desire. All afternoon he’d been able to think of nothing but the silken brush of her mouth against his thumb.

  “And dessert. Surely you’ve heard of their chocolate desserts?”

  She glanced at him, suspicious. “How many times have you eaten here?”

  “Once or twice,” he admitted. “When I first got into town. After I ran out of chocolate pie and before I had time to shop for groceries.

  “Look,” he said as they crossed cobble stone and into Merchant’s Square. “There it is. Looks nice, doesn’t it? Little white lights and all.”

  Abby slowed to look. Her arm brushed his own, and Everett closed his eyes, fighting a body that threatened to stand up and sing.

  “It is pretty,” she admitted, grudgingly. “Look how they weave the vines up the lattice above the door.”

  “The Trellis,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “You want to eat out on the patio or in?”

  “In,” Abby replied without hesitation. “It’ll be cooler in.”

  “As the lady commands.” He guided her beneath strung white lights and into the restaurant.

  The hostess met them with a smile, and led them through a busy dining room to a table against one large window. Everett heard Abby draw a breath. She craned her neck from side to side, trying to see everything at once.

  “Look at how they match the floor and the colors in the hearth,” she said after the hostess had seated them and drifted discreetly away. “And look at the paintings on the wall. Local. I recognize the artist. Someone has good taste.”

  “I brought you here to eat, not assess the decor.” But the animation on her face made him grin.

  She smiled back over the squat white candle that flickered at the center of their table. “I can’t help it. It’s wonderful.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? And here comes the bread.”

  Everett watched as she chose a piece of Irish soda bread from the basket. She took a bite and closed her eyes in bliss, and he had to steel himself from taking her hand again.

  He wanted to touch her, to reassure himself that she was well and truly there.

  He knew that he had hurt her. As a stupid, frightened kid, and again as an equally stupid and frightened adult. And even though most of her temper seemed to have eased, he knew the insult wasn’t forgotten.

  He supposed he should be down on his knees begging forgiveness. But the thought of her blue eyed boy still made his stomach churn.

  “Ev.” She might have read his mind. “You can ask me about the house.”

  He shook his head. “We’re here to eat. Take a look at the menu.”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “I know you. You thought you didn’t care, day before yesterday, when you had your hands all over my breasts-”

  “Abby!”

  “-but that’s the real reason you stopped by my office this morning, isn’t it? Once you remembered to think with the head on your shoulders you couldn’t bear not to know. So why don’t you stop frowning like you’ve got a pain in your gut and just ask?”

  She nudged a polished fork with her pinky finger, sliding it over the table cloth. “I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Everett chose a bread stick. He looked for the waiter, intending to summon a drink. Wine, or maybe a whiskey.

  “No?” Abby picked up the fork and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. The sterling flashed in the candlelight. “You always did prefer brooding to doing.”

  She sounded mildly disappointed.

  He stiffened. “I’ve spent the last decade working my ass off. I didn’t have time to brood.”

  “Could be that’s the problem. Maybe you need to take time and flush it from your system. Stop pretending it’s not there.”

  “What exactly,” he asked with deliberate sarcasm as he snapped a piece from his bread stick, “are we talking about?”

  Abby didn’t wince, as he’d hoped, or even flush up with temper. She studied him for a moment, and then leaned forward across the table. In the soft light her skin looked pale and fragile and her eyes turned to black.

  “What happened that night, Ev? Why did you run away?”

  His breath caught, and bread crumbled between his fingers.

  “Did it have something to do with me? With the fall?”

  Everett opened his mouth on something nasty, but the waiter chose that moment to appear at his elbow. Grim, he ordered a bottle of Merlot, and then waited while Abby picked her dinner from the menu. He ordered a salad for himself and a steak to fill the hole in his gut, and they sat in silence until the waiter reappeared and poured their wine.

  “Well?” Abby prompted when they were alone again.

  “You didn’t fall. You jumped.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “You were an idiot.”

  Still, she didn’t flinch. “I guess I was. So. It did have something to do with that day, with my birthday.”

  “Christ, yes. You were the one stupid enough to jump. But I was the one got blamed for it.”

  The candle flickered and her face seemed to waver before his eyes.

  “Blamed?”

  Everett shrugged, and looked down into his wine. “Once your ma saw you settled in that night, she came storming over. Shouted up a fury at the old man.”

  “Mom?” Abby blinked in disbelief. She shook her head. “And of course he took it out on you after.”

  He shrugged again. The muscles in his back knotted and pulled painfully.

  “Beat me bloody, no surprise. Broke a tooth. Battered a few ribs. So, instead of brooding about it,” he shot Abby a dry look, “I decided enough was enough and packed a bag. Stole the booze money from under his mattress. Took off.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault.”

  “No. You were the fool. I should have let you drown.”

  “Is that why you didn’t say goodbye?”

  He thought her voice quavered. He looked up. Her fingers wrapped around the stem of her wine glass. Her eyes were wide and troubled.

  His conscious prodded and he sighed. “No, Abby. I told you. He beat me bloody. I was a mess. I didn’t want you to see me that way. Fifteen year old boys have a lot of pride.”

  Abby bowed her head. The waiter materialized and placed huge, leafy salads on the table. Abby grabbed her fork and took a hasty bite. Even in the dim light Everett could see the face she made.

  “It’s the arugula,” he said, amused in spite of himself. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Her chin came up. “Seattle doesn’t have a monopoly on arugula, Ev. I know what it tastes like.”

  Everett glared back and took a gulp of wine. Then, quite suddenly, Abby’s mouth curved. “Like cat sweat.”

  He choked on his wine. Abby winked at him, and speared another forkful of greens. “Quiet, Ev. You’re disturbing the tourists.”

  Her soft, rueful laughter melted his heart and
made him ache with the terror of it.

  “Hell.” He breathed, and brushed a knuckle across the top of her right hand.

  She paused, fork suspended, and watched him. “I can’t afford to make a mistake right now, Everett.”