Sitting on the sofa with my feet up in front of the fire, the dog dreaming on the floor, and Summer using me as a pillow, was an entirely different way of doing business. If anyone had told me I could be this at ease prepping for a meeting with Archie Banks, I’d have told them to get their brain checked.
And it had an unexpected side-effect. Usually after a research session, my jaw aches from clenching and my shoulders are knotted from tension. But when I closed my laptop this time, I didn’t have a twinge anywhere.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed when Summer eventually woke and said she needed to go upstairs to her studio to finish some work while I carried on with mine. I was also a bit concerned she might be using that as an excuse to avoid any mention of what happened between us last night.
For the few hours we were apart I felt a strange emptiness, as if I’d forgotten something incredibly important.
When she emerged, I decided to mark our last snowed-in evening together by tucking into the box of gourmet goodies I’d brought as a wedding anniversary/housewarming gift for my aunt and uncle.
“Okay, what have we got here?” Summer stands on tiptoes as she opens the flaps on the box and peers in. “Oh, and ready-chilled.” She grabs one of the two bottles of champagne and checks out the label. “Means nothing to me, but I’m assuming this is good.”
I smile and nod. “Yes, it’s excellent. Not expensive or fancy. But excellent. Made at my friend’s vineyard.” I open a couple of cabinet doors looking for glasses. “Do you have any champagne flutes anywhere?”
She puts the bottle on the counter. “No idea. When do you think the last time I had champagne was?”
“When was it?”
“Urgh, never mind.” She sighs and peers back in the box.
“Let me guess, it was with the guy who was a tool?”
She ignores me and lifts out a gift-wrapped basket of smoked salmon, gourmet cheese, crackers, olives, and fancy condiments.
“This, right here, is dinner,” she says with delight as she unwraps the crinkly cellophane, then scrutinizes the labels on the jars. “Triple Ale Onion Spread, and Balsamic Fig Mostarda.”
She looks from the jars to me. “What the hell is mostarda?”
“Not a clue. My assistant put it together.”
She gives the jar of olives a sharp shove to the back of the counter and screws up her nose.
“What’s up with the olives?” I ask.
She looks at me through narrowed eyes, like she’s suddenly suspicious. “You like them?”
I shrug. “Of course.”
“Then you might have to leave and take your chances with the snow.” She points at the olive jar like it’s committed a crime. “Because they are the work of the devil.”
The passionate level of her dislike is endearing and hilarious.
“Don’t you laugh.” She turns her pointing finger to me. “No sane person would put something that tastes like a salty eyeball in their mouth.”
“That is definitely the most passionate anti-olive reaction I’ve ever witnessed.” I shake my head at her adorableness. “Okay, well, olive hating aside, we can’t drink this fizz out of mugs.”
“Try the cupboard over the backdoor closet. Grandma kept some special things up there, as well as the emergency stuff like the radio.”
I reach up and open the cabinet door, but even at full stretch only the few things at the front are visible, so I pull out the steps from the closet. My mind flashes back to grabbing Summer around the waist when she almost toppled off them—the first time I touched her bare flesh.
“Oh my God, these look amazing,” she gasps.
“Found the chocolates?”
“Yup. Dessert!” she cries. “You found champagne glasses?”
The sounds of food being unwrapped and plates being placed on the counter emanate from the kitchen.
“Not yet. There are a couple of old maps, a box with a tea set in it, a pile of sketchbooks, and some coloring pencils.”
