Beef stew. Rich, dark, tender stew. My girl can cook. Speaking of...
“Pen?”
The lamps are lit about the house, spreading pools of warm light around the space. Ella Fitzgerald’s butter-sweet voice croons about thinking of her love night and day. If it weren’t for the fact that the music is coming from strategically placed house speakers, I might as well have stepped back in time.
But I don’t see Pen. She’s not in the bedroom. I leave my gear by the hall that leads to the closet and go in search of my girl.
I find her in the laundry room. She’s in one of the loose sleep Ts she likes to wear at home, made of a soft fabric that flows over her curves like milk and flutters around her thighs. Hunched over the work counter, she balances on one leg in tree pose—my girl, I’ve come to find out, does yoga—and scrubs at something with frowning focus.
“There you are.” My heart says the same thing:There you are.
She’s so pretty it hurts. Glossy nut-brown hair tumbles and sways around her shoulders. The faint scent of shampoo lingers in the air, and I know she’s just had a shower. Next time, I’ll join her.
But she still hasn’t acknowledged me.
“Penny love.” I touch her shoulder.
And she explodes, yelping and swatting out like I’m an evil fly intent on mayhem. It startles me as well, and I jump back.
“Whoa. Pen!”
She halts, catching sight of me and her fear deflates on a gasp. “Jesus.” She presses a hand to her heart. “August, you scared the hell out of me.”
“Got that.” Smiling, I pull her close. “Sorry, baby.”
She expels a shaking breath and leans against me, laughing weakly. “Shit.” Her nose nuzzles my neck. “What the hell, Luck? You can’t go sneaking up on me.”
Gently, I run a hand over her hair. “I called your name. Right behind you.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, but if I was a killer fly, you’d have got me good.”
“Shut up.” She punches my ribs lightly before snuggling close and wrapping her arms around my waist. A small sigh, and then her body softens against mine, warm and curved. Tenderness squeezes in my chest. I cup her head to my shoulder and breathe her in. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.
“You have a good day?” I ask.
It’s as if the question ripples through her and she stiffens on the impact. Before I can wonder why, she answers. “Sure.”
“Sure” feels a little forced. I pull back enough to meet her eyes, but she steps out of my hold and smiles up at me. “Good flight?”
“Uh. Yeah. It was okay.”
Something’s off. But I can’t place what.
“You made stew,” I say for a lack of anything better.
“I made it last week. Heated it up for tonight.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
“Sure.”
Hmm. Two “sures.”
“You okay?” I ask, glancing around. “What were you cleaning?”
A dark garment of some kind lies crumpled on the counter, half draped into the wash sink.
