“No, at least I don’t think so. She doesn’t do much outside dinner rolls or white bread. Brett liked meat and potatoes, simple food. Well-done steak—which is a crime, by the way—veggies boiled to mush. Mom ate like he did. I sometimes wonder how she stood it, the same thing day in and day out, the lack of flavors.”
His hands dipped into the bowl, his biceps straining through the fabric of his shirt as he kneaded the mixture. She decided that the way he moved could not be more of a turn-on, and picked up a piece of pepper, chewing on it as she tamped down on the arousal flaring low in her belly.
“Love will do that,” he replied. “I’m sure it drove her nuts, but it was what he liked, so she compromised. She had her own things to balance it.”
“I doubt it was love. I’m not sure it was that kind of marriage,” she said sadly, and turned, slicing the rest of the last pepper. She pushed the slivers into a pile and set the knife down, mulling over what she’d just said. Her mother had said as much, hadn’t she? Liz’s heart hurt, thinking about how her mother deserved to be happy and taken care of, and how this whole situation had been the opposite.
“I don’t know much about my dad . . . Brett. Your mom mentioned some stuff tonight, but other than that, he’s just a person I never met.”
“I can tell you a bit, if you like,” she offered, and rested a hip on the counter as he rolled dough balls between his palms then set them in a perfectly straight line on a tray.
He stopped, his flour-covered fingers curling over the edge of the counter. “I don’t know. I get overwhelmed by this house, his car, the office—”
His shoulders bunched up, and she stepped over to him and impulsively placed a hand on his back. His body heat tightened her and she almost pulled away, but as she stood there with him, pressing her palm into the taut muscles, his shoulders lowered. He sighed and hung his head, then ran his hand through his hair at the back of his head, leaving flour in its wake.
A realization hit her as he admitted to being overwhelmed. How could she have not thought of that? He was thrown into his father’s home, withhisfamily, knowing nothing of the man, and they expected . . . well, what, from him? To assimilate in three seconds flat? Brady had figured it out already, and she’d only half listened to him. She felt guilty all over again for the way she’d behaved today, and rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades, restless at the thought of not having seen his stress.
“I never even thought about how it would feel to come into his home, be surrounded by his things, and not end up a little messed up,” she said.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he replied, his voice rough.
He turned to her, and she could see the pain in his eyes threatening to come out. She wasn’t sure if it would spill like Tanner, in anger and gruffness, or like Brady, with quiet. He was so much like Tanner that she backed up a step, expecting hardness to take over, like it had in the diner. She was hoping her offer was an olive branch in their awkward back-and-forth—most of which was her fault.
It might also cool her jets, thinking of something other than him pressing her against the counter and kissing her senseless.
“I think the man is a different thing than all this,” she said, gesturing around her. “I can try to tell you about who he was, not what he was, if that helps.”
“I’d like that.” He cracked his neck and hid the pain with what looked to be careful practice, and then smiled at her. “Would you like to learn how to press and cook tortillas? I added parmesan, they’ll taste amazing.”
She let out a soft breath of relief, the truce accepted. “You bet.”
Chapter Fourteen
The morning sun was just warming the boards of the veranda when Jake got back from his morning run. He flopped onto one of the benches and sat, squinting at the stables, the animals moving about, the birds greeting the day with a riot of noise from the big trees around the house.
It was not nearly as irritating as it had been on day one, waking him up and disrupting his sleep cycle. Maybe he’d finally figured out his clock, because today he’d bounced up at six to get his run out of the way before it got too hot. Yesterday the sun had been a murderous bitch, so this morning had been a lot more tolerable. He compared it to the city, where he could shadow dodge during a run in the middle of the day if he wanted, even if the humidity radiating off the concrete tried to kill him.
He might like this better. The slight breeze and steam rising off the fields along the road were peaceful, the sky big and open, giving him permission to breathe deeply, take up space instead of winding around people, always an apology on the tip of his tongue if he had to wade through a crowd. It was just him and the road.
The ranch was much more restful now that he was used to it, and he relaxed into the seat, his neck and back thankfully pliant and less kinked up than they had been that first night here. The pleasant exhaustion was also likely because he had just punished himself with a hard six-mile run, in an effort to sweat out the new tension that had invaded other parts of him.
The mental image of Liz in the kitchen last night snuck back in, and he rubbed his eyes to ward it off. She had been much more approachable, and they’d put the up-and-down day behind them. Then he’d gotten close to her, her body up against him as he’d shown her how to use his nine-inch chef knife. He was instantly turned on, wanting her, which was a bad, bad idea.
He closed his eyes and sighed as he ran a hand over his sweat-plastered hair, frustrated with himself. Even with her raccoon-black eyes and tape on her nose, she looked warm and soft, and it had been damned near impossible to resist kissing her as their bodies pressed together. With the look she’d given him, she’d all but invited him to do it, as well.
But he had resisted, unsure if he should take it that far. He could sense her disappointment when he’d pulled away. Him, too, in spades.
The stories she’d told him about his dad as they’d mowed down entirely too many fajitas had been funny ones, thankfully. It had helped them both keep things platonic, even though the undercurrent of attraction was still humming. She was trying to soften the man, he assumed. He’d long gathered that his father had not been easy to work for, and he noticed that she skirted around stories of their interactions, focusing more on Brett himself. His achievements, daily life, rituals.
He appreciated that. They were anecdotal and safe. The new thoughts of the man, the stories making him more than just an idea, had rattled around in his head as he cleaned up the kitchen, and when he had finally gone to bed, he was thankful to Liz for distracting him so that he wasn’t as anxious as he had been when Peony had dropped the bombshell that Brett had searched for him.
Not that kissing Liz wouldn’t have done the same damned thing.
“Hey, New York. What’re you doing out here?”
Jake cracked an eye to see Brady, dressed for work in grease-stained blue overalls and a hat that looked like it had been chewed on by a puppy, standing near him. He had a dinged-up metal travel mug in his hand that he slurped from, overtly eyeballing Jake and raising an eyebrow.
“Just finished my run,” Jake replied, and sat up, pulling his earbuds out. He felt lazy suddenly.
