Caitlin’s frown told him she was still angry. She had reason to be.
It was his fault. Holt met her gaze, trying to read her, to see into her soul. He wanted to trust her again. Despite the obvious irritation in her voice, he should be glad she was still there, not on her way to Islip to board his jet. She didn’t look happy to be confronting him— her shoulders were nearly up to her ears, and the knuckles of the hand gripping the doorjamb were white.
He intended to ask her to come sit with him and let him apologize when she pointed at the ceiling.
“I imagine by now your pilot has probably informed you this weather isn’t good for flying.”
Just then, his laptop emitted a ping. Holt checked, then nodded. “Just now, actually. He got the local forecast late last night and stayed in California. This front stretches all the way to the Gulf.” She couldn’t go home until he— and the weather, he thought as another loud crash of thunder sounded— let her go. He might have a chance to salvage whatever had begun to grow between them. He could start by not being the horse’s ass he was yesterday. “I’m glad he did. I wouldn’t want you to risk flying anywhere in this storm.”Or anywhere at all away from me.But he dared not say the words. Not yet. Not until he had a few answers. And a better gauge on her mood. He rubbed a hand over his face and finally met her gaze.
Something sparked in her eyes, making Holt’s belly clench with an unfamiliar sensation. Hope. He tried to quash the feeling, but it persisted, rocking him. He couldn’t have the conversation with her that he wanted until he regained his equilibrium.
Standing, Holt hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “As long as you’re stuck here, we might as well eat.” He meant it as an olive branch if merely a broken one.
She leaned further into the room and crossed her arms. “The delay gives me time to work on the catalog you’ll need to dispose of everything.” She paused a beat and added, “Should I include my photo in it, too?”
She’d grabbed his virtual broken olive branch and jerked it right out of his virtual hand.
Holt snorted and moved toward her, but she held her ground. So much for making amends using food. He’d been too subtle. He stopped and counted to three. He had to stay calm, or she’d bolt. “Look, now that I’ve slept on it, I’m sorry I reacted so harshly. As I said, I’ve been burned before by women I cared about and thought cared about me. So that attitude I tossed at you has become a knee-jerk reaction. After the way this week has gone, I don’t— I didn’t know what, or who, to believe. I’m sorry I acted like an ass. You have a right to be mad at me. But I hope you’ll forgive me. And I do need that catalog.”
“So, you’ll play nice in order to get it?”
He deserved that. He did, but it irritated him all the same. “I’m trying to apologize, damn it. Don’t push your luck.” He moved to brush past her.
Caitlin grasped his forearm and stopped him. “It’s not mine in question. Yours is the only luck— and future— at risk.”
“I…wish we had proof.”
“I offered a way to get it…and you bit my head off.” Caitlin waved an open hand in front of her face, forestalling any reply. “Fine. Never mind. I smell bacon. And coffee. That takes precedence over arguing with you.” She stalked down the hall and didn’t look around to see if he followed.
“Ah, just in time,” Mrs. Smith announced as Caitlin entered the kitchen, Holt on her heels. “And Mr. Ridley, too.” She added pancakes to the steaming stack on a serving platter and poured more batter onto the griddle. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” Holt answered.
“And breakfast?” Mrs. Smith poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him.
Holt nodded and found a seat at the table next to Farrell, who nodded a greeting. He inhaled the scent of bacon, pancakes on the griddle, melting butter and maple syrup, letting them calm him. The kitchen never seemed so cozy to him as it did right now. Much more than when he first arrived from California, or, he supposed, as it might have been if he’d been in it as a child.
Caitlin moved toward the table, then paused, her gaze on Mrs. Smith. “Can I help?” She gestured toward the massive refrigerator/freezer pair that took up most of one wall in the kitchen. “I can pour the orange juice.”
So that’s the way she wanted to play it? She couldn’t sit with him for a few minutes before breakfast was ready— she’d rather ignore him. Or was she simply doing her best to avoid another argument? Holt straightened and reached for his coffee, at a loss for anything to say to Farrell or Mrs. Smith or Caitlin. Yet he didn’t want to let Caitlin think he wanted to ignore her, either.
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Smith flipped the last set of pancakes while Caitlin poured juice for the four of them and then set the glasses at each place setting on the table. She added the pitcher, too, before taking a seat beside Holt.
A long rumble of thunder rattled dishes. The lights flickered but stayed on.
“Dreichweather we’re having,” Caitlin muttered.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Smith told her as Farrell stood and took the platter of pancakes and bacon from her and set it on the table. “Storms usually blow through quickly. It should be over soon.” She joined them at the table. “Do you have weather like this where you’re from?”
“Occasionally.” Caitlin’s gaze shifted to the platter being passed around the table. When it reached her, she took a serving, then lifted it toward Holt.
Her hand brushed his, and scattered hot prickles ran up his arm and down through his torso to his groin. He forced himself to ignore the sensation and took a helping of breakfast without meeting her gaze.
Then the lights went out.
“Well,” Mrs. Smith said, rising, “it’s a good thing we cook and heat this place with gas. Now, where did I put those candles?” She pulled open one drawer after another. “This dreary daylight is enough to see by, but since we’re sharing a meal…ah, there they are…we may as well be romantic.” She lit two tapers she’d placed in holders and brought them to the table. “Now, that’s better.” She looked at Holt. “I remember your mother used to laugh at storms. She was a lovely girl. Lively and brave. Had to be, after what happened.”
Holt cleared his throat and bent back to his breakfast. “After what?”
