Chapter 8 #2
“The doctor said I can walk around.”
“Doc’s not here,” he quickly retorts, carrying me over to the couch.
On instinct, I wrap my arms around his neck. The worst possible mistake I could’ve made. It brings my face within inches of his. When Joel turns his head to look down at me, it’s not lost on me how close our lips are to one another’s.
I’ve dated different men since my divorce. A few younger than me, some my age, and others were older. Only two relationships lasted longer than a couple of months.
The men were handsome, accomplished, or ambitious at the very least. But none of them had ever drawn out my attraction with such ease as Joel Townsend.
“I could’ve made it to the couch on my own,” I tell him as he lowers me.
“And risked hurting yourself worse in the process.”
I shake my head and part my lips to tell him he’s wrong, but he’s already gone back to the kitchen to retrieve the macaroons.
“Thank you,” I say just above a whisper when he lowers the plate so that I can grab a macaroon. I bite into the sweet, delicious coconutty treat and savor it.
I fail to recognize that I’ve closed my eyes only until I open them to find Joel watching me, barely restrained hunger in his eyes. If it weren’t for my injuries, I swear I would wind up squirming underneath the weight of that look.
“These are delicious,” I say. “You should try one.” I motion toward the plate in his hand.
I refrain from telling him how much anything with coconut is my absolute favorite, but nothing beats coconut cake.
Slowly, he takes one of the macaroons and brings it to his lips for a bite. He never takes his eyes off of me, but his eyebrows spike.
“Good, right?”
He grins.
“Meghan found a little bakery in town.”
“Rinaldo’s Place.”
“That’s the one,” I say. “I haven’t been in person yet, but as soon as I’m up and about I plan to go.”
“Don’t rush your healing just to get to the bakery. I can bring you more macaroons.”
My jaw slackens from the casual way he volunteers to run errands for me.
“Besides,” he continues, “I came over to bring you a couple of things to help decorate for Thanksgiving.”
I can’t keep my eyes from widening.
“What did you just say?”
He must not hear or care for the outrage in my voice because Joel’s too busy heading out of the room toward God knows where. In a handful of seconds, he’s returned with a huge bag.
He sets the bag on the coffee table and begins pulling out items. The first of which is a wooden carved pumpkin that’s been painted gold, followed by two more similar pumpkins, slightly smaller in size.
Joel then proceeds to pull out a few candles and their respective holders.
“I didn’t know if you’d prefer actual candles that burn or those new electric ones everybody’s in love with these days.” He grunts and rolls his eyes. “Anybody with any sense knows real candles are better than those imitation, wanna-be candles.
“Since you don’t have young children or any pets, the real candles aren’t in too much danger of being knocked over or falling from them running around.
“Thus, I chose to go with the real candles for your place. One of them is even pine-cone scented. You know, to set the ambiance. Like, in one of your vide—” He stops and clears his throat, running his hand along the back of his neck.
I can’t even process everything he’s just said as I take in the array of Thanksgiving decor he’s pulled out of this bag.
“Did you go shopping for all of this?” I finally ask.
“Most of it,” he replies while still sorting through the items and setting them out as if to display them for me.
“What about the decorations out front?” I ask, referring to the Thanksgiving display on my front porch that I discovered as I took my first venture out of the house this morning when Meghan drove me to the doctor’s.
“Most of those I had at the house. They go with what I bought. And the wreath on your front door.” He juts his head in the direction of the door.
“Which I never asked Meghan to get. Or for you to help her hang.”
Joel stands to his full height, cocking his head to the side. I would laugh at his seemingly genuine confusion at my tone, but then I glance down at the items he’s brought.
“You might as well take them right back to the store because I have zero intentions of putting them out to display.”
He frowns. “Of course you don’t,” he shocks me by saying. “You’re injured. You can’t hobble around here putting up Thanksgiving pumpkins.”
Sighing, he shakes his head as if I’m the one who’s not understanding what’s happening here.
“But, well …” He looks over his shoulder back at the kitchen island. “Perfect.”
“What are you …” I trail off as I watch him saunter over to the island with the pumpkins and candles in hand.
I remain speechless as he not only wipes down the island, ridding it of any crumbs, but then proceeds to place the golden lace runner along the length of the island, before putting three of the pumpkins at the center.
He then places candles at either side of the end pumpkins, completing the holiday-themed center piece.
“What?” I gasp as he then goes over to the dining table and does the same thing with the remaining decor.
I don’t know for how long I sit there and watch him, but by the time he’s finished, both the kitchen and dining areas are dressed up and ready for the holidays.
“Perfect,” he says just under his breath. Almost as if he’s speaking to himself.
I watch his profile as he assesses his handiwork.
A sudden memory from years ago pops into my mind. It was two days before Thanksgiving and Rick’s parents were scheduled to come into town to stay with us. I had been up all night with Meghan who’d caught a nasty bout of the flu.
While she’d slept during the day, I ran around to the stores to get all of the groceries and ingredients for our Thanksgiving meal, medicine for Meghan, and new bedding for the guest room since Rick’s mother was very sensitive to the thread count she slept on.
I was exhausted by the time I got home. Yet, the house still needed to be decorated for our guests. I’d already bought the decor but just needed to put it all out.
When I asked Rick, he huffed and puffed and told me he didn’t have time for that. What did he have time for? A late afternoon golf game with some colleagues from the office.
“What do you think?” Joel’s question tugs at my attention.
He stands to the side of the couch, looking down at me and then over to the decorations he’s just set up.
“It’s not too much but it’s a little something,” he adds.
I swallow the lump in my throat, not understanding all of the emotion that overcomes me.
“If I had a little more time I could’ve pulled something nicer together, but … well …” He trails off.
That’s when I look at him again.
There’s anticipation in his hazel eyes. As if he’s truly dependent on my response.
“It looks great,” I finally say.
He nods. “That daughter of yours was the one who chose the wreath color. It goes with the feel of your house.” He does a sweep of my home with his eyes before they land on me again. “I just picked up a few things that matched what she’d already chosen.”
He stands there for an awkward moment, glancing around at the decor, the rest of my living room, and then at me.
I stifle the grin that threatens to emerge at seeing the hardened exterior of this incredibly sexy, grey-haired rancher slip.
Whereas I originally parted my lips to tell him that buying any decor was completely and utterly unnecessary, what comes out is, “Thank you. Everything looks beautiful.”
He pinches his lips together before nodding.
“I should get goin’,” he says after a beat. “Micah and Jodi will be over soon with the kids to start Thanksgiving dinner.”
“It’s only Tuesday,” I say, in part because I’m not entirely sure I want him to leave yet.
A rumbling chuckle comes from him. “That daughter-in-law of mine is in charge of the desserts every year and she always starts two days before Thanksgiving.” He shakes his head, a smile whispering across his lips.
It’s infectious.
He might be a bit of a blowhard but he’s a man who loves his family.
“It’s my job to keep the kids out of her hair while she preps. Micah too.”
“Micah? He’s your son?”
“Oldest.”
“Ah.” I nod. “The private investigator.”
Joel narrows his eyes, looking down at me.
“What? You didn’t think I’d move into a neighborhood without doing a little research on my neighbors? All I had to do was put in your name and the website for his security company is like the second or third link that pops up. After your ranch’s site, of course.”
“Naturally.” He nods.
Joel does a grunt-chuckle as he shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“He was a Texas Ranger before becoming a PI. If you’d asked me years ago if I’d have a son who worked anywhere near law enforcement, I would’ve told you, you were loonier than that old show with the talking horse.”
“Why’s that? Not a fan of law enforcement?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “More like its worst nightmare.” He shrugs. “For those who weren’t on my business’ payroll, anyway.”
“You mean the ranch’s payroll?” Why would a ranch need to keep law enforcement on its payroll? Unless, of course, it was for security purposes.
“The business I was in before ranching,” he adds, but doesn’t give me time to ask more questions when he says, “Your daughter’s back.” He nods his head toward the window.
I turn to look out the window to find Meghan pulling into the driveway in my car. While I’m always happy to see her return, a tiny piece of me wishes she had stayed out a little longer.
I get the distinct feeling that despite his declaration earlier about needing to leave, he would’ve stayed until whatever time Meghan got home to keep me company.
And I have to say, I don’t entirely hate that idea.