Chapter Two #2
“Not too early for you.” She angled her head. Lord, he was fun to look at. She’d been hoping to do more than look for months, but Brian Hathaway was one of the natives of this little spit of land that she was having trouble winning over. “I guess breakfast isn’t ready yet.”
“We don’t serve till eight.” He figured she knew that as well as he did. She came around often enough.
“I suppose I can wait. What’s the special this morning?”
“Haven’t decided.” Since there was no shaking her off, he resigned himself when she fell into step beside him.
“My vote’s for your cinnamon waffles. I could eat a dozen.” She stretched, linking her fingers as she lifted her arms overhead.
He did his best not to notice the way her cotton shirt strained over small, firm breasts.
Not noticing Kirby Fitzsimmons had become a full-time job.
He wound around the side of the house, through the spring blooms that lined the path of crushed shells.
“You can wait in the guest parlor, or the dining room.”
“I’d rather sit in the kitchen. I like watching you cook.” Before he could think of a way around it, she’d stepped up into the rear screened porch and through the kitchen door.
As usual, it was neat as a pin. Kirby appreciated tidiness in a man, the same way she appreciated good muscle tone and a well-exercised brain. Brian had all three qualities, which was why she was interested in what kind of lover he’d make.
She figured she would find out eventually. Kirby always worked her way toward a goal. All she had to do was keep chipping away at that armor of his.
It wasn’t disinterest. She’d seen the way he watched her on the rare occasions when his guard was down. It was sheer stubbornness. She appreciated that as well. And the contrasts of him were such fun.
She knew as she settled on a stool at the breakfast bar that he would have little to say unless she prodded.
That was the distance he kept between himself and others.
And she knew he would pour her a cup of his really remarkable coffee, and remember that she drank it light. That was his innate hospitality.
Kirby let him have his quiet for a moment as she sipped the coffee from the steaming mug he’d set before her. She hadn’t been teasing when she’d said she liked to watch him cook.
A kitchen might have been a traditionally female domain, but this kitchen was all male. Just like its overseer, Kirby thought, with his big hands, shaggy hair, and tough face.
She knew—because there was little that one person on the island didn’t know about the others—that Brian had had the kitchen redone about eight years before.
And he’d created the design, chosen the colors and materials.
Had made it a working man’s room, with long granite-colored counters and glittering stainless steel.
There were three wide windows, framed only by curved and carved wood trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals, though, as far as she knew, the Hathaways rarely ate as a family. The floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy work for Brian.
Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique kitchen tools. She imagined he thought of them as practical rather than homey, but they warmed the room.
He’d left the old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for gathering, for lingering.
She liked it in the winter when he lighted a fire there and the scent of wood burning mixed pleasurably with that of spicy stews or soups bubbling.
To her, the huge commercial range looked like something that required an engineering degree to operate. Then again, her idea of cooking was taking a package from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave.
“I love this room,” she said. He was whipping something in a large blue bowl and only grunted. Taking that as a response, Kirby slid off the stool to help herself to a second cup of coffee. She leaned in, just brushing his arm, and grinned at the batter in the bowl. “Waffles?”
He shifted slightly. Her scent was in his way. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Lifting her cup, she smiled at him over the rim. “It’s nice to get what you want. Don’t you think?”
She had the damnedest eyes, he thought. He’d believed in mermaids as a child. All of them had had eyes like Kirby’s. “It’s easy enough to get it if all you want is waffles.”
He stepped back, around her, and took a waffle iron out of a lower cabinet. After he’d plugged it in, he turned, and bumped into her. Automatically he lifted a hand to her arm to steady her. And left it there.
“You’re underfoot.”
She eased forward, just a little, pleased by the quick flutter in her stomach. “I thought I could help.”
“With what?”
She smiled, let her gaze wander down to his mouth, then back. “With whatever.” What the hell, she thought, and laid her free hand on his chest. “Need anything?”
His blood began to pump faster. His fingers tightened on her arm before he could prevent it. He thought about it, oh, he thought about it. What would it be like to push her back against the counter and take what she kept insisting on putting under his nose?
That would wipe the smirk off her face.
“You’re in my way, Kirby.”
He had yet to let her go. That, she thought, was definite progress. Beneath her hand his heartbeat was accelerated. “I’ve been in your way the best part of a year, Brian. When are you going to do something about it?”
She saw his eyes flicker before they narrowed. Her breathing took on an anticipatory hitch. Finally, she thought and leaned toward him.
He dropped her arm and stepped back, the move so unexpected and abrupt that this time she did nearly stumble. “Drink your coffee,” he said. “I’ve got work to do here.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing that he’d pushed one of her buttons for a change. The smirk was gone, all right. Her delicate brows were knit, and under them her eyes had gone dark and hot.
“Damn it, Brian. What’s the problem?”
Deftly, he ladled batter onto the heated waffle iron. “I don’t have a problem.” He slanted a look at her as he closed the lid. Her color was up and her mouth was thinned. Spitting mad, he thought. Good.
“What do I have to do?” She slammed her coffee cup down, sloshing the hot liquid onto his spotless counter. “Do I have to stroll in here naked?”
His lips twitched. “Well, now, that’s a thought, isn’t it? I could raise the rates around here after that.” He cocked his head. “That is, if you look good naked.”
“I look great naked, and I’ve given you numerous opportunities to find that out for yourself.”
“I guess I like to make my own opportunities.” He opened the refrigerator. “You want eggs with those waffles?”
Kirby clenched her fists, reminded herself that she’d taken a vow to heal, not harm, then spun on her heel. “Oh, stuff your waffles,” she muttered and stalked out the back door.
Brian waited until he heard the door slam before he grinned. He figured he had come out on top of that little tussle of wills and decided to treat himself to her waffles. He was just flipping them onto a plate when the door swung open.
Lexy posed for a moment, which both she and Brian knew was out of habit rather than an attempt to impress her brother. Her hair was a tousled mass of spiraling curls that flowed over her shoulders in her current favorite shade, Renaissance Red.
She liked the Titian influence and considered it an improvement over the Bombshell Blonde she’d worn the last few years. That was, she’d discovered, a bitch to maintain.
The color was only a few shades lighter and brighter than what God had given her, and it suited her skin tones, which were milky with a hint of rose beneath.
She’d inherited her father’s changeable hazel eyes.
This morning they were heavy, the color of cloudy seas, and already carefully accented with mascara and liner.
“Waffles,” she said. Her voice was a feline purr she’d practiced religiously and made her own. “Yum.”
Unimpressed, Brian cut the first bite as he stood, and shoveled it into his mouth. “Mine.”
Lexy tossed back her gypsy mane of hair, strolled over to the breakfast bar and pouted prettily. She fluttered her lashes and smiled when Brian set the plate in front of her. “Thanks, sweetie.” She laid a hand on his cheek and kissed the other.
Lexy had the very un-Hathaway-like habit of touching, kissing, hugging. Brian remembered that after their mother had left, Lexy had been like a puppy, always leaping into someone’s arms, looking for a snuggle. Hell, he thought, she’d only been four. He gave her hair a tug and handed her the syrup.
“Anyone else up?”
“Mmm. The couple in the blue room are stirring. Cousin Kate was in the shower.”
“I thought you were handling the breakfast shift this morning.”
“I am,” she told him with her mouth full.
He lifted a brow, skimmed his gaze over her short, thin, wildly patterned robe. “Is that your new waitress uniform?”
She crossed long legs and slipped another bite of waffle between her lips. “Like it?”
“You’ll be able to retire on the tips.”
“Yeah.” She gave a half laugh and pushed at the waffles on her plate. “That’s been my lifelong dream—serving food to strangers and clearing away their dirty plates, saving the pocket change they give me so I can retire in splendor.”
“We all have our little fantasies,” Brian said lightly and set a cup of coffee, loaded with cream and sugar, beside her. He understood her bitterness and disappointment, even if he didn’t agree with it. Because he loved her, he cocked his head and said, “Want to hear mine?”
“Probably has something to do with winning the Betty Crocker recipe contest.”
“Hey, it could happen.”
“I was going to be somebody, Bri.”
“You are somebody. Alexa Hathaway, Island Princess.”