As she pressed the spice mixture into the meat the phone rang.
Nate looked at the phone. “Want me to get it?”
“Sure.”
He grabbed the cordless phone. “Hi. Hey, Derek.” He listened, looked at Krissa. “Okay. What time? Yeah. I’ll tell her.” He pressed the button to disconnect and set the phone down.
Krissa’s stomach tightened. “He’s not coming home for dinner, is he?”
Chapter 8
Nate nodded. “That happen a lot?”
“Oh, yeah.” She sighed. “I’m used to it. Good thing he called before I got his steak ready.” She picked up the third rib-eye and put it into the freezer.
“He said he won’t be home until about ten. Client meetings.”
She nodded, washing her hands at the sink.
“How about I open that wine?”
“Sure.”
She handed the corkscrew over to him and while he opened the Pinot Noir she got out glasses. He poured some into each and she sipped it.
“Very nice.” She nodded, sipped again, enjoyed the puckery tannins, the fruity berry taste.
“Mmm.” He looked around. “You going to grill those steaks outside?”
“Yes. It’s a gas grill, it’s easy to use.”
“Just say when, and I’ll help. I’m pretty good with a barbeque.”
She smiled. Since he’d been back, he’d seemed so different than she remembered. But this…this was the first glimpse she’d had of the Nate she recalled. He’d always been so much fun—wild, spontaneous, always smiling and laughing. The laugh they’d shared that afternoon had been the first smile she’d seen cross his grim face. His deep-set eyes and straight, grim mouth gave him a forbidding look that one smile banished. Yeah, she’d felt sorry for him earlier, but he wassonot the loser he felt like. He was smart, funny, talented. And gorgeous. “I like you, Nate.”
He turned a startled face to her. “Uh…thanks. I…uh…like you too.”
She grinned. “People don’t say that to each other often enough. You tell people you love that you love them, but you never tell your friends that you like them.”
He studied his wine. “So I’m your friend?”
“Of course you are. You’re Derek’s friend, so you’re mine too.”
He said nothing, just kept looking at his wine glass and she sensed the discomfort he felt. This Nate was different—closed off, unavailable and brooding.
“We should get those steaks on,” she said brightly.
They grilled the steaks and the mushrooms and Nate whipped up a vinaigrette dressing for the salad Krissa put together. They sat out on the deck to eat their meal in the evening sunshine, Nate with his back to it.
“How’re your eyes? Better than this morning?”
“Better. They’re always sore and sensitive, but sometimes not so bad.”
“Have they improved at all since you got sick?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
Nodding, she cut a piece of steak and popped it into her mouth. Just the right bite of black pepper, heat of cayenne, warmth of garlic.
