“Not all of them. Like I told you, my dad was a lousy cook, but he insisted on trying.” Rachel braced herself, waiting for the rush of emotions that sometimes made her want to curl in a ball when she spoke about her father. The chuckle that bubbled up through her chest surprised her.
“I bet he was a good man. Even if he couldn’t cook.”
“You’re a good man, too.”
The words were out of her mouth before she could process let alone edit them. That didn’t make them any less true. The more she got to know Mick, the more she liked him. Sure, she’d responded to the hot firefighter vibe first, but now she found his qualities of both integrity and tenderness, particularly around her children, just as appealing. A twist on the dangerous bad boys who’d always drawn her like an oversize magnet, Mick was a good guy who battled danger. She felt a little safer just having him around.
Mick glanced back at her over his shoulder and dampened his lips as though trying to find his words. The rumbling on the stairs saved him from having to try and gave her a reprieve from having to explain why she’d said it.
The floor vibrated beneath their feet as both girls raced into the kitchen, pajamas sticking to their damp skin and towels on their heads.
“Is it time to eat?” Carly pointed to the stove.
“It’s ready. Now get in your seats, and we’ll bring out the food.” She could have sent Mick out of the kitchen, too, but he’d already helped with dinner, so she doubted he would mind assisting her in serving.
She ladled some sauce into a bowl and then poured the pasta into a second one, noting that he’d added a little olive oil so it didn’t stick. He put the bread on a plate and grabbed the plastic-wrap-covered salad bowl from the refrigerator and started into the dining room.
When he reached the table, he glanced back at her, his gaze so warm that it felt like a caress. Yes, it was for the best that the two of them wouldn’t be eating dinner alone together tonight.
Chapter 13
“They really were hungry.”
Mick grinned as he surveyed the empty serving bowls and bread platter. Rachel’s twins sat behind empty plates, sated looks on their faces and more than a little of their dinners decorating their matching pink, polka dot pajama tops. Their short hair that had dried without the benefit of a comb stuck out every which way.
Rachel rolled her eyes at her daughters but smiled. “I guess showers before spaghetti wasn’t my best idea.”
Visiting her home tonight had not been one of his smartest plans, either. On his stealthy walk over, he’d been worried about spending time in the same room with the girls’ mother while constantly looking for excuses to touch her. Now he realized that a cozy dinner with Rachel and those two sweet little girls was just as dangerous for him. Possibly more so.
Good thing the blinds were closed up tight because anyone passing by on the sidewalk and seeing the four of them through the front window would think they were a family. He was having a hard time trying to avoid imagining that picture himself. And longing for things he should have known better than to want.
“I do have a stain stick,” Rachel said, still speaking about her messy daughters. “I’ll need a lot of it.”
“You didn’t seem to be hungry.” He pointed to her plate where she’d scooted around spaghetti noodles but appeared to have taken only a few bites.
“I’m a little distracted since someone still hasn’t told me why it was so important that we meet tonight.”
Mick blew out a breath. “Fine. Anyone ever mentioned that patience isn’t your virtue? I had to meet with Kenny Davison today.”
“That’s it?” Then she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Had to?”
Carly, who’d been too focused on the last piece of garlic bread that she’d split with her sister to pay attention to the adults before, suddenly moved her chair closer to his.
“Mr. Mick, did you know that I had gym at school today?” Carly sat higher in her chair and crossed her arms with authority. “We practiced jump rope tricks.”
“I bet you’re great at skipping rope,” he said. “I miss nearly every time when I try.”
“I could teach you.”
Carissa leaned so far forward that her chin nearly touched the tabletop. “I could teach you stuff, too. I had art today. We’re making bowls with clay that we roll out like snakes.”
Mick pushed back from the table and glanced over at Rachel, who was watching him. He couldn’t blame her for being cautious with anyone around her daughters. They already had an absentee father. She probably wanted to protect their tender feelings.
“Sounds like I’m going to be busy.” He set his fork aside.
“On Monday, I’ll tell my art teacher, Miss Summers, that Mr. Mick—”
“Wait,” he said to interrupt Carissa and then swallowed hard.
