Chapter 3 Hope #3
I smiled at her hostessing skills. “Yes, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She handed it to me, then extracted another cookie.
Replacing the lid with great care, she set the cookie on the counter, climbed down, moved the chair back to the breakfast table, then retraced her steps to retrieve her treat.
She carried it to the red stool in the corner—the stool where I’d spent hours as a child watching Gran bake—climbed up, and regarded me. “Are you a princess?”
I looked down at the floaty negligee and smiled. “No. I’m Mrs. McCauley’s granddaughter.”
“Nuh-uh.” She shook her head. “You’re too old to be a granddaughter.”
An irrational sense of dismay swept through me. Ever since I’d turned thirty, I’d become sensitive about my age, and as the numbers crept higher—next fall I’d be thirty-two—so did my awareness of my biological clock.
“You look more like a mommy,” Sophie said, biting off an edge of cookie and considering me as she chewed. “But you’re dressed like a princess or the tooth fairy.”
It took some effort, but I didn’t laugh. “I promise I’m neither. But, Sophie—does your mom know where you are?”
She nodded solemnly. “My mommy knows everything.”
Her mother must have told her the old “mothers have eyes in the back of their heads” line that had made me search through my mother’s hair while she was asleep.
“She’s in heaven,” Sophie continued. “She lives there with God.”
“Oh.” The geoplates of my heart shifted. Losing my mother at the age of twenty-eight had been horrible. I couldn’t imagine losing a mother as a preschooler. “Well, your dad must be worried about you.”
“Nah. He’s busy.”
“So who’s watching you?”
“Gramma was, but she left and Aunt Jillian took over.”
“So . . . what’s Aunt Jillian doing?”
“She’s busy with Daddy.” She took another bite and chewed. “My sister hopes she’s gonna be our new mother.”
Ooo-kay. I wondered just how busy they were. “Where do you live, Sophie?”
“Next door.” She pointed to the left.
“Well, as soon as you finish your cookie, I think you should go ba—”
“Sophie!” A deep male voice drifted through the front screen door. “Sophie!”
“In here!” the girl yelled, so loudly I jumped.
Steps sounded on the porch. “Hello?” called a male voice.
“I’m in the kitchen with a lady who looks like the tooth fairy,” Sophie shouted. “Come meet her!”
The screen door squealed open, and a moment later, a tall man filled the doorway.
He had dark hair and blue eyes, and he was wearing a starched white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, with a loosened blue-and-gray-striped tie.
He was good-looking, if you’re shallow enough to notice such things—which, unfortunately, I am.
I’d like to think it was the element of surprise that turned me into a tree and made me just stand there, rooted to the floor, but the truth is, he looked like a cross between Jake Gyllenhaal, Hugh Jackman, Bradley Cooper, and a young George Clooney, with a nose that looked like it might have once been broken, because it was just a little bit skewed to the left, and something about that slight imperfection made my stomach speed-bump.
It took several beats of silence for me to realize he was staring back in a way that made me highly aware of my state of deshabille.
Deshabille—another of those old-fashioned, peignoir-related French words.
Once something enters my head, my thoughts keep circling back to it at the most inappropriate moments.
A friend who majored in psychology said it sounded like OCD, but I never talked to a doctor about it, because having ADHD was bad enough and if I was more screwed up than that, I really didn’t want to know about it.
Anyway. Here was this smoking-hot man in my kitchen, and I’m dressed like a 1940s screen siren, and it felt all kinds of weird. I shifted the cookie to my left hand.
“Want a cookie, Daddy?” Sophie asked.
“Uh, no thanks.” He pulled his eyes from me and knelt down by his daughter.
I couldn’t help but notice the way his thigh muscles bulged under the summer-weight wool of his gray pants. The guy was ripped.
“Sophie,” he was saying to his daughter, “you know you’re not supposed to wander off.”
“I came to see Mizz McCauley, but the tooth fairy princess lady was here instead.”
The man turned Gyllenhaal-blue eyes on me. “I apologize for my daughter barging in on you.”
“Oh, she didn’t barge in . . .” I hesitated. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, but on the other hand, I didn’t want him to think I’d been standing out in the yard dressed like Mata Hari, luring stray children inside. “. . . exactly. I mean, apparently she regularly visits my grandmother.”
“So you’re Mrs. McCauley’s granddaughter,” the man said, straightening.
Sophie scrunched up her brow. “You’re really a granddaughter?”
I smiled down at her. “We come in all ages.”
“Really?” Sophie asked.
“Sophie!” called a woman’s voice from outside. “Sophie!”
“In here!” Sophie bellowed. “Come on in.”
Great, just great. At this rate, the whole town would soon be in the kitchen, wondering why I was dressed like Lana Turner.
The porch door squeaked again, and a moment later, an attractive blonde about my age walked in.
Her eyes widened as she took me in. She glanced at the man, then back at me, then rushed to Sophie.
“Honey, we were so worried! You know you’re not supposed to leave the yard without an adult. ”
“I didn’t. I came over to see Mizz McCauley.”
The woman smoothed Sophie’s hair.
“I’m Hope Stevens,” I explained, extending my cookie-free hand. “I’m Mrs. McCauley’s granddaughter.”
“I’m Jillian Armand.” She gave my hand a tentative squeeze.
The man held out his hand. “And I’m Matt Lyons.” His palm was solid, his fingers strong. A rush of adrenaline zinged through my veins. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it. Touching him made it hard to remember much of anything.
“How’s your grandmother?” asked Jillian.
“Better. She’s regained consciousness.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Matt. “I was really worried when I found her in the shed.”
Pieces of information clicked together in my head. That’s why I recognized his name—Mrs. Ivy had mentioned it on the phone. Come to think of it, Gran had mentioned it last winter when she told me about new neighbors moving in next door. “I owe you a huge thanks.”
Matt lifted his shoulders. “It was unusual for her shed door to be open, so I thought I’d better check.”
“People in Wedding Tree try to look out for each other.” Jillian’s gaze flicked over my gown, then darted away, as if she were embarrassed.
“But we can talk about all that later; it looks like we caught you at an inconvenient time.” She nudged Sophie toward the foyer.
“We need to get out of here and give you some privacy.”
“Oh, um, that’s all right,” I stammered.
“Are you here with your husband?” Jillian asked.
“My husband? Oh, no. He’s not—I mean, I’m, uh, divorced.
” Oh, God—did she think I’d been in the middle of an afternoon delight?
The attire certainly suggested it. Holy furburgers—did Matt think the same?
My face burned. “I was just, uh, trying on some of my grandmother’s clothes.
I was looking in her closet . . . I’m a vintage clothing freak, and . . .” My voice trailed off weakly.
“Well.” Jillian glanced at Matt as she herded Sophie toward the door. “We should leave you in peace.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I babbled. Way to go, Hope. Beg them to stay so you can humiliate yourself some more.
Jillian opened the screen door and ushered Sophie onto the porch. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see you later.”
“Bye!” called Sophie. “Thanks for the cookie.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Matt said. I could tell he was trying to keep his gaze above my neck, but it slipped downward as he exited the house. A wave of heat flushed over me.
Terrific, I thought, closing the heavy door behind them and sinking against it. Nothing like making a good first impression on the neighbors.