When I’d come inside to shower, she’d been shut in what I assumed was her bedroom. The door was open now.
My pulse kicked up at the idea of finding her in her natural environment.
But she was in the kitchen, pouring two big glasses of lemonade. She had another skirt on—thank fuck. I never thought much about women’s clothing until I got a green light to access what was underneath, but with Scarlett, my brain wanted to be proactive, and skirts were accessible.
She also had on a simple pink top with spaghetti straps that matched well with the colors swirling through her white skirt. The pattern was similar to the temples of her glasses. She looked both bold and whimsical.
I kept hold of my bag and propped a shoulder against the wall to watch her work. “Did you do the needlepoint yourself?”
She froze. “Uh, yes.”
“I like it.”
Looking over her shoulder, she blinked at me. “Really?”
“It’s funny. And clever.”
The corner of her mouth kicked up, and she grabbed a jar of cherries. A few drops of the juice went into each glass. Then she plopped two cherries per cup on top of the ice. “My grandma taught me how to embroider and she used to have the funniest sayings, so I’ve tried to put a little of her into each one.”
Of course Scarlett wouldn’t be whimsical for no reason. That was the practical, practiced side of her. She used the character trait as a teacher and to remember a loved one. “My grandma taught me how to judge a good bourbon when I was fourteen.”
She grabbed both glasses and turned, a fond smile on her face. “Grandparents, right?”
“Exactly.” I dug in my bag and brandished a half-pint of Summit Gem, our highest-quality bourbon. “I brought you some.”
Her brows crept up. She set the lemonade down. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“Neither am I.”
More surprise crept into her face. “Don’t you have to sample and stuff? I’ve heard your sisters talk about it.”
“Yeah, that’s the fun part, and we were raised learning how to describe a batch of bourbon. Oddly enough, that’s why we’re not big drinkers. It’s an art. It’s chemistry. It’s a hobby. You don’t want cheap shit after you’ve learned what goes into the best, and you don’t want to overdo it and ruin your taste for a family passion.” I set my bag by the wall. “However, the younger me would’ve had a different answer.”
Her laughter shot straight into my chest. “I can picture it. I think your sisters were the same. So your parents were okay with it?”
“Mama would get so upset with them, but Grandpa always said the business was in my bones, not alcoholism.”
“Did it keep you out of the parties in the pastures?”
I grinned. “No.”
She chuckled again and there was very little I wouldn’t do to coax a smile from this woman. When she wasn’t nervous or serious, she was radiant.
She pushed her glasses up. “Thirsty?”
“I am.” A quirky, colorful little teacher was making me parched.
She sat primly at the end of the table, one foot crossed over the other and the billowy fabric of her skirt draped over her legs.
I took a seat close to her and angled to face her. I had brought water, but I chugged the lemonade. Sweetness burst over my tongue. Scarlett would taste this sweet. I smacked my lips. “That’s good. Homemade?”
A smile ghosted over her lips. “Country Time. But I like to cut up lemons to put with it and then add some maraschino cherry syrup.”
I plucked a cherry out and bit it off the stem. Twirling the stem, I glanced around the kitchen. “You moved here from Bozeman?”
She nodded. “I would’ve been fine moving back after college. My parents are there, but I wanted something different too, only not far from them.”
“You’re close?”
