“Lack of humidity.” I follow her to the passenger side of my truck and open the door for her. It gives me the opportunity to appreciate her backside, and it’s not one I miss.
I nod my head at her when she’s seated, and she narrows her eyes in response. She knows.
We’re quiet on the short drive to the homestead. She climbs the stairs to the front door ahead of me.
“Tenley?” Her name has left my lips before I’ve had time to consider what it is my brain would like to say.
She pivots. The setting sun casts a dull glow on her, turning her blonde hair amber and her eyes a darker shade. She gazes at me, expectant, but I’m too afraid to do what I want right now.
Instead of pulling her into my arms and tracing her lips with my own, which is what I’d do if my parents and kids weren’t on the other side of the front door, I do the lamest thing possible. I offer her a high-five to make up for the one I missed earlier.
She stares at my offered palm, then slowly presses her palm to mine. Her gaze lifts.
“Another time,” she whispers, then turns back around and walks inside.
17
Tenley
Casserole.
Tater tot, to be exact.
I’ve never had it, but it smells good enough to have kicked my salivary glands into working order. Just one look at the glass dish in the center of the Hayden dinner table tells me I’ll be hooked for eternity.
“Juliette, that smells incredible.” I smile at Warner’s mother as she leans over the table with a large wooden salad bowl in her hand.
“Well, eat up,” she replies. “There’s plenty.” She sets the salad in front of Beau, as far from me as possible. Either she’s sending a message to her husband, or she’s sending a message to me. Somehow I think it’s the latter. She’s always trying to get me to eat more food at breakfast.
The dishes are passed around the table. I take a bite of my dinner.Oh my God.It’s as good as it smells. I chew and swallow, then open my mouth to compliment Juliette a second time, but decide not to. Twice would be overkill. Juliette doesn’t seem the type to appreciate a barrage of compliments. Instead, I focus my attention across the table.
“Peyton, how was school?” I look at Warner’s daughter and arrange my face into polite interest.
The look she gives me back could cut ice, slay a demon, maybe even scare the robe off Voldemort. “Fine,” she answers, the answer sounding more like ‘fine-uh.’
Oh Lord. The ‘-uh’ ending. I did it. My sister did it. A hallmark of teenage girls, both past and present. I nod enthusiastically, as if Peyton has just told me that today she was elected president of student council. “That’s great.”
Warner meets my eyes. His shoulders lift, his eyes squeeze tight. He releases them both, the frustration clear. His mouth opens, but the voice comes from the far end of the table.
“You can be rude to used car salesmen and boys trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do.” Beau’s voice is low, and he doesn’t look up from his plate. He doesn’t need to. He might have used a megaphone for all the attention he commanded the moment he spoke. “But you will not be rude to a guest in my house.”
Peyton ducks her head, and I feel bad for her. I want to defend her, to tell them I was a teenager once too, that I had the same attitude. What I didn’t have was an intimidating grandfather to tell me to knock it off.
I decide to keep my mouth shut. Drawing the ire of Beau ranks pretty low on the list of things I’d like to do anytime soon. Peyton can weather this one on her own.
Now it’s awkward. Quiet. Forks and knives scrape plates. And then, in a miracle that rivals manna raining from heaven, Dakota walks from the kitchen into the dining room. She’s holding a dinner plate.
She stands beside Juliette and grins at the table. “Would you believe me if I said I smelled dinner all the way from my house?”
Juliette snorts. “No.” She takes Dakota’s plate and passes it to Warner. He adds casserole and salad to her plate, then lifts it above his head.
Dakota walks up behind Warner, mussing his hair before taking her plate. He shifts it back into place. Dakota takes the empty seat beside me and starts to eat.
“So good,” she says around a mouthful. She looks down the table. “Nice work, Mama H.”
Juliette lifts her two eyebrows in acceptance, and that’s it. My mother would have purred her pleasure at having her cooking skills complimented, would have rushed to write down the recipe and passed it off as her own when it was most certainly someone else’s. It’s amazing how different people can be.
“Dakota, do you know if the wine bar is booked solid tomorrow night?” Warner asks.
