CHAPTER 8 #7
A tingle flitted across her breasts. She snatched up a napkin and quickly dried her hands. Her gaze refused to leave his long fingers as they got coated with the creamy soap, the tan bar rolling in his large palm.
Grabbing more napkins, she placed them near him on the counter and set about opening one of the bags, extracting paper plates and cellophane plasticware packets. She tore one open and used the spork to pull a pile of tenders onto a plate.
She pushed it toward Nick and set about getting some chicken for herself.
It smelled delicious. She bit into a crunchy strip and couldn’t suppress a moan.
Something in his dark gaze flared, and he smiled a little. “Good?”
She nodded. “These are incredible. What is this place called?”
“Chi-Kin. Little place on North Mills Avenue.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Highly rated online.” He popped a tender in his mouth, smiling as he chewed. He swallowed. “And deservedly so.”
“I love fried chicken.”
“I know.”
She looked at him with skepticism. “How would you know?”
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You always bought lunch on fried chicken days.”
She paused to regard him, then picked up another tender. “You remember that?”
His smile bordered on boyish. “Yeah.”
She helped herself to more. She hadn’t been hungry lately, but suddenly she was ravenous. “What would you like to drink?” She bent to open the small under-counter refrigerator. “I have Stella, White Claw lemon and mango, Pellegrino—”
“Got any Dr Pepper?” He grinned.
Wow. What else did he remember? She grinned back in spite of herself. “I do.”
“I’ll take that if you have one for me.”
She pulled out two cans and slid one over to him, watching as he popped the tab and tipped back his head to take several gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
The sun had sunk low on the horizon, painting the sky and lake in lavender, pink, and gold. The breeze picked up, and Jannie shivered, but she wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the dropping temperature.
“Your clothes should be done, and your shoes are drying. The laundry room is at the end of the hallway to the garage. Go past Rolf’s crate, and you’ll see it to the left.” She smiled. “You can’t miss it. There’s a tub and washboard etching on the door glass that says, laundry.”
“The laundry room is labeled?”
“Yes. So is the pantry.”
“What else?”
“Whatever needs to be organized.”
A tiny smile. “Everything has to be perfect for you, doesn’t it?”
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “Yes.” Cleanliness and order were vital for her mental health, and lately, she’d been slipping on both.
“I get it,” was all he said, then headed inside.
No judgment, no teasing. That wasn’t what she was used to. Her childhood nickname, given by her brothers, was Freak—short for “cleanliness and control freak.” Blake also often showed exasperation over her meticulous ways. But Nick’s reaction … well, she wasn’t sure what to think.
Best not to look too much into it.
·
It took Nick a while to get dressed and come back, and Jannie realized why as soon as he stepped onto the patio: he had found the iron and board and used them.
His silver captain’s wings, which she had removed and left by the laundry room sink, were now back on his left breast pocket where they belonged.
Not ogling him proved impossible. That freshly pressed shirt clung to him in all the right places, the short sleeves barely containing his bulging biceps, the white on navy epaulets highlighting his broad shoulders.
If ever a man was born to show off a pilot uniform, it was him.
Even the silly smiley-face slides, which he still wore, didn’t detract from his hotness.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
His smile warmed her to the core. “I found your ironing supplies. I even found spray starch and a steamer. You weren’t kidding when you said you organize everything. I’m impressed.” He ran a hand over his shirt front, glancing down appreciatively. “How did you get this so white?”
Oh, he appreciated that. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Laundry sheets specifically for whites. From Germany.”
“I’ll have to get some. This shirt didn’t look like this even when it was new.”
“I can give you a box. They’re kind of hard to find. I have Adam bring me some whenever he flies to Munich.” The intensity of his gaze made her wrap her arms around herself.
He noticed. “It’s getting chilly.” Nick eyed the firepit in the middle of the patio. “Got any wood?”
“Wood?”
“Yeah, for that firepit over there.”
She regarded him questioningly. “Why?”
He grabbed the last unopened bag and raised it. “So we can do dessert.”
He handed her the bag. She looked inside. A package of marshmallows, a giant chocolate bar, and a box of Graham crackers.
Jannie couldn’t help it: she laughed. “You ordered s’mores stuff?”
“Had to. I saw that firepit, and there’s nothing like a good s’more.”
She couldn’t argue with that. She also couldn’t remember the last time she’d used that thing, and never to roast marshmallows.
Where was the wood? Jannie crossed the patio to the corner pool closet and tried to open the door, but it had been closed for so long that it was stuck shut.
“Aw, shit,” she muttered. She yanked harder, but it was no use. Well, this was embarrassing. She hated to seem incapable, no matter what she was trying to do. Maybe some WD-40 would do the trick.
She started to turn, only to nearly bump into Nick’s very tall and very solid frame.
“Let me help.”
For a heart-pounding moment, she stood there, looking up at him.
“It’s stuck,” she said, stating the obvious.
He nodded. “I see.”
Was he referring to the door? Because his impossibly dark eyes were studying her face with an intensity that made her look away. But was ensnared, trapped in the beauty of his gaze, inexplicably caught in … in him.
Hastily, she stepped aside, nearly colliding with the heavy stone hose pot to her right.
She watched as Nick gripped the doorknob, and Jannie couldn’t drag her gaze away from his forearms. With one powerful tug, he pulled the door open as if it were nothing.
A small brown spotted gecko darted out, scurrying away from the closet where he’d apparently been trapped. Nick didn’t so much as flinch, unlike most people unfamiliar with Florida’s critters.
“Glad I opened this door,” he muttered. “Little guy would have died in there.” Nick eyed the inside of the closet. “Here we go.” He grabbed several pieces of split wood off a neatly stacked pile. “Kindling?”
Jannie shook her head.
Nick zoomed in on a hatchet propped against the pile.
“No problem.” He grabbed the tool and strode to the grass.
Lying the log horizontally on the ground, he chopped downward toward the end of the firewood.
Once the blade was embedded in the wood, he lifted both and drove them down with enough force to neatly split the quarter log in half, then did it again.
There was something primal about a muscular man wielding an ax to make a thing as basic as kindling. He crouched down, the navy fabric stretching tight across his ass, and Jannie couldn’t tear her eyes away. His muscles corded beautifully, biceps bulging as he made quick work of his task.
Finally, he held up several thin sticks with a triumphant grin. He tipped his head back to look up at her, fist full of wood, his dark hair ruffled by the gentle breeze, and she suddenly wanted to step forward and grip a handful of that glossy hair and press his face to …
A nearly violent electric current coursed through her.
She took a big step back, shaken by the graphic image that had just invaded her mind. “I’ll get the lighter.”
Nick
Nick stared into the fire that quickly grew, the flames licking the edges of the firepit.
His gut feeling that Jannie was in trouble had proved right. The way she looked when she came outside, as if she’d spent the whole day in bed, not eating enough, not leaving the house, not interested in anything … She had lost weight, and there were shadows beneath her beautiful eyes.
He recognized this. He’d experienced something similar after losing his mom, and the only reason he hadn’t gone off the deep end was the conviction that she’d be devastated if he let the darkness take him.
And he refused to let Jannie go down that hole.
His first priority was to get her out of here, he decided, because although her home was large, luxurious, and beautiful, he knew well that it was full of ghosts, and he’d be damned if he’d let her keep being haunted.
He sensed her presence behind him before she said a word. Turning, he watched her approach, carrying two large cushions and a long-necked green bottle.
Immediately, he surged to his feet. “Let me help you.”
Before he could, however, she released the cushions, and they landed at his feet.
He smiled. “We’re sitting on these?”
“Yup.”
Ah.
The only patio seating was a double chaise lounge. She evidently didn’t want the closeness. He did his best to hide his disappointment.
She reached into her back pocket and produced a small white remote. One push of a button, and he heard a grinding noise. Five screens began to descend simultaneously, enclosing the patio.
“I do have a service that sprays for bugs.” She set down the wine bottle with a clink, then headed back to the summer kitchen and returned with two plastic glasses. “But the mosquitoes still seem to find me. And when they do, it’s bad.”
“Because you taste so sweet,” he said without thinking.
He didn’t miss her widening eyes or the way her gaze flicked to his mouth, and it took everything he had to keep from hauling her against him and reenacting what he’d done to that mouth of hers in that Las Vegas ballroom.
But that would be inappropriate. He sensed he needed to handle her with the utmost patience and care, and that was exactly what he would do.
She spread a paper tablecloth in front of the firepit and kicked the cushions a good couple of feet apart.