Chapter Thirteen #2
“You make it?”
Did her heart always have to do that pitter-patter thing when he grinned at her?
“My momma sent it home with me.”
She did have a freezer, and hot dish froze well. She hadn’t had real Southern fried chicken in—well, longer than it had been since she’d been turned on by a hot, sweaty man. “I wouldn’t want to—”
“Of course you wouldn’t. But you brought dessert, so let’s call it even.”
“You really think a pie makes dinner and coffee even?”
His lips were twitching again. He shot a glance at the garbage can. “Maybe, maybe not. But you look like you could use a good meal, and I never object to pretty company.”
“As long as you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
The gate clanged shut behind them. “Anna Grace, you’re a lot of things, but you’re never a bother.”
Like he’d tell her if she were.
He let them into the house through the screened-in porch. Radish moseyed along next to her. She scratched the dog behind her ears. “How’d Radish get her name?”
He slid his phone and the pie onto the counter and flashed another of those ornery grins. “Aw, now, that ain’t a right proper story for a lady. You go on and make yourself at home. Won’t take but a minute to get cleaned up.”
He disappeared around the corner toward what she assumed to be the bedroom, and she found herself as disappointed as Radish when Jackson wouldn’t let her sniff the pie.
Because she wouldn’t have minded getting cleaned up with him.
If Jackson hadn’t thought Anna would’ve gotten derailed putting his bedroom to rights, he would’ve invited her to join him.
Instead, he hopped about, tossed off his dirty clothes and then dug for a clean pair of jeans and a shirt in the laundry basket.
One of these days, he’d burn some leave to finish putting the house in order.
But between all the time he’d been spending up in Auburn or hunting, and then TDYs and training and getting up to speed at work, sorting out the house hadn’t taken priority.
He’d done what he needed to live in it and put the rest off for when he had more time.
Seeing as he had a woman who’d brought him pie here now, getting his bedroom put to rights was fast moving up his list of priorities.
But first, a shower.
He was back out in the kitchen in less than five minutes. Anna wasn’t there. He poked his head around the corner and found her sitting in a pile of books and movies, label maker out beside her, nose buried in a Mae Daniels book.
She caught him watching her and pointed to her label maker. “They’re temporary.”
He flashed her an easy grin. “Think you’re missing your calling, Anna Grace.”
She ignored that and held the book up, and he caught the laughter dancing in her eyes. “One of your favorites?”
Summerswept. He’d liked it the first time around, but it was an older Mae Daniels. She’d gotten better and better since then. He dug into the pile and came up with Southern Honey. “Try this one.”
The smile on her face slid into an O. “Does Lance know about this?”
“Shoot, Anna Grace, who do you think gave ’em to me?” He snagged Hero Nurse out of the pile too. “Don’t let the title fool you. You can bring it back next time you’re over. Might could learn a thing or two from Bernice in there. You like okra?”
She snapped out of her surprise to give the same kind of nose wrinkle he expected out of someone who hadn’t grown up on the good stuff.
“That’s okay, I got potato chips too,” he said.
She moved to stand.
“Sit,” he said. “You go on and keep having fun.” He snagged the remote off the counter and handed it over. “Don’t reckon you’ll need this, but if you do, hope you like football or hunting shows. I disabled all the girly channels.”
“Of course you did.” She tucked the three books into her purse, and she was smiling when she went back to his mess.
Nice symbiotic relationship they had.
As it turned out, even though Anna insisted an undying love for the unfortunately named Golden Gophers, she was pretty smart about football.
She didn’t seem to mind watching the Bama game he’d recorded while he was taking Mamie out to the shooting range.
And though he’d been sure it would rankle Anna to eat greasy, cold fried chicken on the couch, she helped herself to a few extra paper towels and dug in beside him.
She even opened up that bottle of ketchup he’d bought after Kaci mentioned Anna thought it was its own food group. Long as he didn’t watch her dipping Momma’s fried chicken in it, he was fine.
She skipped the biscuit, which he couldn’t fault her for, since Miss Dolly’s niece’s cousin’s biscuits were light and flaky as a brick, but she liked her chips well enough to sort them into piles.
Broken chips, whole chips, and it took him a minute to puzzle out that the third pile was folded-over chips.
Looked like she was saving them for last, so he slid a couple of his own over onto her plate, making sure he accidentally-on-purpose brushed his arm over hers.
She blinked a couple times quick. “Thank you.”
He got a notion it’d been a while since anybody noticed the little things. Probably longer than since her moron of an ex took himself out of her life.
“Leaving more room for pie,” he said.
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. And then she ate all of her chips—without ketchup, even—and helped herself to a couple more off his plate while they watched the game.
Alabama kicked off after their field goal.
Anna gestured to the screen with her chips.
“Is it hard to tell the difference between the teams?” she asked.
He’d taken enough ribbing in his life over not seeing colors right, but she seemed honestly curious. And for once, he found himself on the laughing side. “Nah, I just root for whoever doesn’t have North Texas scrawled over their helmets.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
“I’m a right smart one.”
She crunched into another chip, and he didn’t mind listening to that at all. Play continued in the game, and he leaned close enough to her to smell her hair. Smelled pretty.
And a bit like grass.
“So,” she said, “how’s a guy who grew up in Auburn end up going to school at Bama and getting a tiger paw tattoo, but live to tell the tale?”
She was a right smart one too, sneaking that in there. “You learn not to talk about it.”
She tilted her head back and peered up at him. A commercial came on. He paused the game and took the plates into the kitchen, wondering if it was his imagination or if she was giving him a dirty look for avoiding the question.
He decided it was his imagination, because that had this evening ending better than her giving him dirty looks. Once he slid the plates into the sink, he went digging in his drawer for a spatula to serve the pie with, but came up empty. “Anna Grace, you know where my pie server is?”
“When’s the last time you used it?” She popped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
Her shorts had a few stains he guessed had come from her tumble earlier, but he didn’t reckon he needed to point that out.
Still, she didn’t seem bothered at all, so that was a good sign their symbiotic relationship could survive his avoiding a question or two.
He scratched his head. “Don’t remember.”
“If it’s not in the drawer, I’d check your dishwasher.”
She seemed to get a kick out of knowing his kitchen better than he knew it himself. He pulled the dishwasher door open and about jumped out of his skin.
His bronze armadillo stared up at him from the depths of his dishwasher.
“Oh, hey, Enrique,” Anna said. Her lips quivered like she was barely keeping it in, but since she crossed the kitchen to bend over and pat his armadillo, putting her that much closer to him, he’d give her this one. “How’s it going? Oh, look. Pie server.”
She lifted it out and smiled at him with all the innocence of a woman. He took the utensil, set it on the counter, and kicked the dishwasher shut. He closed the small gap between them. “You having fun, Anna Grace?” he asked, slipping his hands to those hips that were getting some curve back.
Speaking of curves, there went her lips too, all full of sass and some intentions he could get on board with. “I am, thank you.” Her fingers slid up his arms and her bare calf brushed his, leaving him wondering how he managed to find near about the perfect woman.
Watched football, ate cold chicken, didn’t want commitment.
“But that was awful mean of you to leave Enrique in the dishwasher,” she said.
“You want an audience?”
She shivered against him, but since she leaned closer, he took the shiver as a mark in his favor. “Maybe not.”
Her lashes flirted with her cheeks. Her fingers had walked up his arm and shoulder to do something to the back of his neck that he was enjoying in other parts of his body too.
He ran his fingers through that soft, pretty hair, then nudged her head closer to his.
A hint of a smile teased at those soft lips. He brushed them with his own.
She angled closer. He took his time enjoying all that soft skin and warm mouth.
He did love a good long kiss with a kissable woman.
He liked those little noises she made too, the way her leg crept up his, how she pressed closer and closer even though his body had gone past gentlemanly about the time he’d started looking at her lips.
He found himself mighty glad she didn’t like biscuits. Mighty glad she was willing to share her pie with him too.
He was thinking about giving in to those little hints she was dropping about where she wanted his hands to go when AC/DC exploded out of his phone on the counter.
Wasn’t often Mamie irritated him, but either her timing was bad, or she knew he was sampling a Yankee’s biscuits. Frustrated the heck out of him to pull away. “Sorry, Anna Grace. This one’s important.”
She took a shaky breath. “Okay. But I’ll be here. You know. When you’re done.”
Just like that, she had him smiling again. “Pretty sure I can find you.”
He snagged the phone and took himself behind the kitchen and into his bedroom. If he could get the bed cleared off and keep Anna focused on kissing him until they got there, he figured he had a sixty-five-percent chance. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Sugarplum, I’ve been—you got a girl over there?”
He tucked the phone under his chin so he could shovel underwear into a box. “Yes, ma’am.”
“She bake biscuits?”
“Dunno.” He pushed his guns under the bed then shoved his travel bag under too, listening to Mamie think as loud as a few other women he knew.
“You ain’t asked her,” she said.
“Already got a freezer chock full of ’em. Didn’t see any reason to.”
“Interesting.”
Stick his head on a platter and call him toast. Mamie had that tone again. That Mamie-on-a-mission tone.
“Thought you’d be bowling tonight,” he said. He dumped a stack of Air Force magazines in the closet.
“Me and the girls are taking a night off,” she said.
Jackson straightened. “Everything okay, Mamie?”
“Nothing you need to be worrying over. Got a little bit of a sore shoulder after all that firing yesterday. I’ll put some ice on it and be better right quick.”
“You sure that’s all?”
“Had a few more hunting questions, but I can call you back later. You go on and have some fun now. And don’t forget protection.”
Didn’t matter how many times she used that phrase over his lifetime, still made him wince knowing Mamie knew what was going on in his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
They disconnected. There was still too much junk piled on his dresser, but he’d made a clean path to the bed and it was made. He sucked in a breath, double-checked he had unexpired protection, then headed back to the kitchen.
He turned the corner, and Anna’s phone beeped. She was still propped against the counter. A sweet smile curved her lips up. She noticed him and treated him to a you silly guy look. “Cute,” she said.
“Wasn’t me,” he started, but she’d apparently already figured that out.
Because when she looked down at her phone, her smile dropped away, her eyebrows knit tighter than a sweater, and her whole body went rigid as an armadillo’s armor.
He had a feeling he wouldn’t be needing that protection now. He approached her slow, as he would a wounded deer. “Okay, Anna Grace?”
“Yeah.” She sucked her lips into her mouth, staring at the floor.
“Rain check?” Being the gentlemanly thing to say didn’t make it what he wanted to say.
Her eyes squeezed shut. “Sorry.” But she lifted her head and looked straight at him, and he saw something else he wasn’t used to seeing in Anna Grace.
Whatever that message was about, it had her spitting mad.
Only two things he knew of that caused a woman to look like that, and since she didn’t have any babies to protect, he was betting it was a man. But she wasn’t railing at Jackson, so he took that as a good sign she might bake him another pie sometime.
Might give him a gander at her peaches one of these days too.
He gestured to the cabinet under his sink. “Got some Windex if it’d help.”
A smile broke through her anger, but she was still simmering. “Don’t think it’ll squirt that far, but thank you.” She crossed the room, went up on her tiptoes to brush his cheek with a sweet little peck, then stepped away. “Thanks for dinner too.”
“You going to Lance and Kaci’s wedding?” he asked, and then wanted to kick himself.
Both because taking a girl to a wedding went against his religion, and because he wanted her to go with him anyway.
She bent to pet Radish. Her doe-eyes were headlight wary. “I—I suppose I’ll see you there.”
He should’ve been relieved. Wasn’t like he wanted the expectations of having a date at a wedding. Still, long after he’d walked her out to her car and seen her off, he was puzzling over how he was going to handle finding the perfect woman.
Because despite how long Momma’d been saying women were perfection, this was the first time in his life he’d ever found evidence she might be right.