Chapter Seven
The shop closed at six on Tuesday, and Jackson had sent word—through Daniel and then through Gen—that he’d be at Kate’s place at seven. That left little time for Kate to rush home, change into the outfit Gen had picked out for her—a blue cotton sundress and low, strappy sandals—touch up her makeup, and clean up the house so it would look presentable.
Obviously, the kitchen took top priority, cleaning-wise; Jackson would probably turn around and leave, scowling, if it wasn’t spotless. Fortunately, that didn’t take much, since Kate rarely used the kitchen for anything but toast and frozen pizza.
With the counters wiped down and the sink scoured, she rushed around picking up various pieces of her life from the countertops, the tables, the sofa. Magazines, books, used water glasses. She scooped up a pile of discarded clothes from the bedroom floor, considered putting them away, looked at the clock, and opted instead to stuff them inside the closet and close the door. When she was finished, she gave the place an appraising look. Not bad.
As she worked, she thought about exactly what it was she was hoping to gain from spending time with Jackson. Like Zach, he wasn’t relationship material. He didn’t use women, exactly—those who had dated him tended to think well of him even after things ended. But end they did, and usually after a very brief time. But who was to say that wasn’t just what Kate needed? She was getting back into dating for the first time in years. She wasn’t ready to jump into anything serious. A brief and mutually satisfying fling with a man who revved her engine could be exactly the right thing for her at this point in her life. There was no harm in it. They would both have fun, and then they would part on good terms.
At six forty-five, Gen came in to give Kate and the place her assessment. She looked Kate up and down, then gave her a thumbs-up. “Good. You look good. Really pretty, but also casual. Just hanging around, being yourself, living your life, not at all concerned that a really hot guy is about to knock on your door.”
Kate gave her a half-grin. “That’s just the look I was aiming for.”
Gen, looking serious, appraised the house. “Okay, wait.” She went to Kate’s bookcase, plucked a couple of books from the shelves, and arranged them artfully on a side table. Then, reconsidering, she selected one, opened it to the middle, and placed it pages-down on the arm of the sofa. “There.”
“What’s that for?”
“The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Sexy and intellectual. You’re all set.”
Gen wished Kate luck and went out the door.
Kate could hear Gen’s footsteps going down the stairs to her apartment, and part of Kate wanted to go hide down there, too. What was she doing? Yes, a fun fling might be nice. But Jackson Graham had rarely been anything but foul-tempered and rude to her. Why should she think that he was attracted to her, just because someone told someone else that he was interested?
Just relax, and forget all of that. He’s doing me a favor. He’s coming because I promised Zach a romantic dinner with Sherry, and I don’t know how to cook.
Fine. She’d stick to that. This was a guy just helping someone out. Something he’d have been unlikely to do if he weren’t interested in her. But still.
She looked at the clock. Five minutes to seven. She felt a little fluttery feeling in her chest, and took a deep breath to steady herself. Okay, so maybe the very sight of him made her stupid and sweaty-palmed. Maybe it always had. So what? There was no reason to act like this was anything more than a cooking lesson.
After all, it would be foolish to get her hopes up about anything that had to do with a man. She’d learned that the hard way.
Kate hated to be a cliché, but she knew she was one. Burned by a man two years before—having been cheated on, emotionally manipulated, belittled, and used—she’d been left so emotionally fragile that she hadn’t ventured out there since then. Gen, Rose, and Lacy had tried to fix her up numerous times, but she just hadn’t been ready for that. Was she ready for it now?
Only one way to find out.
She poured herself a glass of chardonnay to steady her nerves. She was only two sips into the glass when Jackson arrived. She opened the door to find him virtually hidden under bags of groceries and kitchen supplies.
“Wow! Let me help you with that,” she said, taking a bag from his arms and ushering him in.
“Thanks. I didn’t know what you had, so I thought I’d better bring a few things.”
They put the bags down in the kitchen and she peered inside: one contained the food they’d be preparing, and another, a thick canvas carry-all, contained a sauté pan, a sauce pot, a set of knives in a leather sheath, and other various implements Kate couldn’t name.
“I have a few things, but … mostly I don’t cook,” she said.
“I was afraid of that.”
“That’s why I was so desperate for help. Thank you, by the way. I appreciate you coming to my rescue like this.” She looked up at him. Instead of replying, he’d stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking uncomfortable. She couldn’t help but smile at his awkwardness. Who’d have thought he would be awkward, given his vast and varied experience with women?
There was that fluttery feeling again. Something about the guy. At six-foot-two, with broad shoulders and a powerful build, he towered over her. His wavy, ginger hair was attractively unkempt. He wore close-fitting jeans and a deep emerald button-down shirt that made his green eyes all the more dazzling.
“Should we get started?” she prompted.
“First, let’s go over the … Wow.” He stopped midsentence as his gaze wandered over the sliding glass doors that led to the deck and the breathtaking view beyond. He walked across the room, opened the door onto the deck, and stepped out. “From the neighborhood, I figured you had a view. But this … ”
He took in the breaking waves, the sounds of the sea lions, the grassy expanse on the slope below the house, the hummingbirds flitting to and from a tree just off the railing of the deck.
“It was my mother’s.” She came out onto the deck to stand beside him.
“The house?”
“Yes. She left it to me when she passed away five years ago. The bookstore, too. When she died, I figured I’d sell both of them and get back to my life. But then … this became my life. I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” Standing close to him, she could smell a hint of his cologne on the early evening breeze.
“Any regrets?” he asked.
“Actually, yes. I regret that I didn’t spend more time here, with her, before she passed. I was too busy. Busy, busy, busy.” She shook her head at the thought.
He turned toward her, leaning one hip on the railing of the deck. “What did you do before this? What kept you so busy?”
“Oh,” she waved a hand dismissively. “It all seemed so important at the time. I went to grad school. I wrote a book. I had an adjunct teaching job at a university. I was very involved in being an intellectual. Going to cocktail parties to be seen with the right people. That sort of thing.”
His eyebrows rose. “You wrote a book?”
“I did.”
“Published, or in a drawer somewhere?”
“Come inside. I’ll show you.”
They went into the house, and she rummaged around in a bookcase. “Now, where did it … ” She looked over at the books Gen had stacked on the side table. “Oh. Of course.” Naturally, Gen had put the book out where it would be visible. Kate walked to the side table and took the book from the stack. “Here.”
She handed the book to Jackson.
He looked at it—a trade paperback with the simple, elegant image of a tree in fall foliage on its cover—and then looked at Kate, surprise on his face. “This is you? You wrote Beyond the Boundaries of Desire? You’re Katherine Hoffman?”
“It’s my married name. Before I changed it back. You’ve read it?” Kate felt an electric jolt of pleasure at the thought that he knew and had enjoyed her work.
“Years ago, when it came out.” H
e opened the cover and looked at a handwritten inscription on the title page.
To Mom,
I couldn’t have done this without your love and support.
All my love, Kate.
“This is your mom’s copy.”
Kate reached out for the book and held it in both of her hands, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yeah.” She swiped at her eyes. “Sorry. She’s been gone five years, and it’s still hard.”
“Of course it is.”
They looked at each other with charged intensity before she changed the subject. “So, what did you think of the book?”
“Are you kidding? It was brilliant.”
She wondered if maybe he was bluffing—either hadn’t read it, or had read it and forgotten about it—when he quoted from the last chapter:
“And then Wallace understood what she’d meant when she’d said she couldn’t live, couldn’t breathe. It was a saddening of the soul, a heartache unthinkable in any other place.”
Kate looked at him, and then at the book. “Well, I … Wow.”
“That’s what I was going to say about the book. Wow. I couldn’t get over the ending, where the kid walks into the river. I almost wrote to you about it.”
“You did?”
“Almost. But then I figured a big-time writer like Katherine Hoffman wouldn’t want to be bothered by a guy like me.” There was that awkwardness, that vulnerability, again. It made her smile.
She turned away from him to hide her mounting emotions. “Are you kidding? I’d have loved it. You were one of about fifty people who read it.”
“That’s not true. You got reviewed in the New York Times.”
“You read the Times review?”
“Sure. The guy raved about it. Called it a promising debut.”
“Well.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t always translate into sales.”
“Is that all it’s about, sales?” He sounded disgusted, outraged. “Is that why you stopped writing? Because it didn’t sell? That’s just … I mean, if you’ve got a gift, and it’s just about money … ”
She turned back toward him, defensive now. “I didn’t stop writing. I stopped getting published. Sales do matter when a publisher is deciding whether to offer you a contract. They matter very much.”
She could see him mentally backpedaling, trying to rein in his aggressive attitude. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“Anyway. I’m glad you liked the book.” She changed the subject. “So. What are we going to cook?”
The menu he’d selected for Zach and Sherry’s dinner was elegant and sophisticated, but none of it required advanced cooking skills. They’d start with an appetizer of mushroom pizzette—a kind of small pizza topped with button, crimini, and shiitake mushrooms—then move on to a main course of herb roasted pork shoulder with parmesan polenta and a salad of escarole and radicchio with fennel. Dessert would be poached pears with fresh whipped cream.
Kate looked at the menu and her face fell. “This is … I don’t know if I can do this. It sounds amazing, but if it doesn’t come in a microwaveable tray, I’m pretty much adrift.”
“No.” He waved off her objections. “The whole point of this menu is that it looks and sounds impressive, but anyone can do it.”
She still wasn’t sure. “Really?”
“Sure. And it all works well to make ahead the day of the dinner, so you can get it ready and then get out of the way before they get here.”
She poured him a glass of chardonnay as they started pulling food and supplies from the bags he’d brought. She’d worried about how he’d react to the wine—would he call her an idiot again? But when he took a sip, his eyebrows raised in appreciation.
“Mmm, not bad. Did Rose get you this?”
She nodded. “Yeah. She’s my go-to guy for wine.”
He grinned. “Mine too. Okay, let’s get the pork roast into the oven first thing, because it takes a while to cook. Then we can work on the side dishes and the appetizer.”
She’d expected him to make the food while she watched; she’d heard stories about how controlling he was when it came to cooking. Instead, he showed her how to score the skin on the pork roast, directed her in rubbing it with garlic, rosemary, and sage, gave her tips on the best way to roll the roast and tie it with twine, and then nodded with approval as she slid it into the oven.
“Well, that wasn’t so hard,” she said. “How long will this take? I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“The roast? About three hours.”
She gaped at him. “Three hours?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry. We’ll make the mushroom pizzette next. It won’t take long, and it’ll give us something to munch on while we work.”
Together they sliced mushrooms, grated cheese, and stretched out the ball of pizza dough he’d brought. (He suggested premade dough, to make the process easier for her on Friday night. She was grateful.) They placed the pizzette on a baking pan and slid it into the oven and onto the rack beneath the pork roast. While they waited for it to bake, he discussed the importance of organization and cleanliness, showing her how to clean up as she worked so she wouldn’t have an enormous mess at the end of the evening.
When the pizzette came out of the oven, Kate inhaled the scent, eyes closed in bliss. “God, that smells fantastic.”
“Well, as it happens, we have a break now, because we don’t have to make the polenta until the roast is nearly done. Here, let’s have some of this.” He rummaged around in her kitchen drawers for a pizza cutter. When he found one, he sliced the pizzette into six neat wedges and arranged them on a plate. They refilled their wine glasses and took them and the food out onto the deck, where the sunset was in its full glory. Kate put the plate on a side table between the two Adirondack chairs she kept on the deck, and they ate and sipped wine while the sun washed the sky and the ocean in oranges, pinks, and reds.
“This is amazing,” Kate said, munching on a piece of the appetizer they’d made. “But I’d have expected no different, coming from you.”
He shook his head. “What’s amazing is this view. Jesus. This spot has got to be one of the best lots in town.”
Kate nodded and took another sip of wine. “It’s one of the original houses in this part of town. It seems like one by one, all of the older houses are being torn down and replaced with architectural showpieces. Of course, the small size of the lots here, combined with restrictions on blocking other people’s views, means none of them are very big. But still, this place is starting to look like an eyesore next to the neighbors. I need to get some renovations done, but there never seems to be enough money.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s an eyesore at all. It’s a little older, sure, but I think it’s great. I like what you’ve done inside, too. It’s homey. Comfortable.”
She flushed with warmth at the compliment. “I think so, too. I haven’t changed it much since it was my mother’s. Most of the furniture, the décor, is hers. Being here, with all of her things, makes me feel closer to her.”
“How did she die?” He looked at her cautiously, clearly gauging whether this was an acceptable avenue of conversation.
“Ovarian cancer. She was sick for a long time before I even knew.”
His eyebrows furrowed in concern. “She didn’t tell you?”
“She didn’t know. She’d been having symptoms for over a year, but she kept ignoring them, thinking it was just aging.” She shook her head. “By the time she decided to see someone, it was too late. She didn’t have a chance.” Tears filled her eyes, and her vision blurred. She swiped at them. “I’m getting emotional. Sorry.”
“Hey. We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” He put a hand on her arm.
“No, that’s okay. I can talk about it. It’s just, I’ve always wondered if it would have made a difference if I’d been here more. If I’d seen her more. I would have known something was wrong. I’d have made her get help sooner.”
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He shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
“What do you mean?” She sniffed a little and looked at him. He was leaning toward her, all concern and intense attention. She caught his scent, cologne and soap and white wine, and something more earthy and manly.
“What I mean is, maybe you wouldn’t have seen it. Maybe you’d have thought what she did—that it was normal aging. Or maybe you’d have nagged her to get help, and she still wouldn’t have done it. You don’t know. Also, and maybe most importantly, her health wasn’t just on you. It was her responsibility, too.”
She looked down into her wine glass. “I guess.”
“Also, shit happens. No matter what you do. It just happens.”
From his tone, she could guess that he wasn’t just talking about her and her mother. He was talking about himself, and the shit that had happened in his own life. It made her want to know more about him.
She nodded. “Yes. You’re right. I know that.” And she did. Still, she started to cry. She struggled to keep the emotions inside, but the tears started to flow freely. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is stupid. It’s been five years. Excuse me a minute. Let me just … ”
She rose from her chair and started to go inside, thinking that she would compose herself in the bathroom, wipe her eyes, blow her nose, make herself presentable before emerging again. Instead, he rose with her and caught her arm in his hand.
“Kate, wait.”
She turned to him. He was standing close, his broad chest inches from her, his hand gently resting on her arm. He looked down at her, and she could feel his breath on her, smell his warm male scent.
“I know what it’s like to lose people,” he said. She could feel his voice in the trembling of her skin. “I know how hard it is. I’m sorry about your mom.” He put his arms around her and drew her into a warm embrace. His heartbeat thrummed under the sounds of the breeze and the surf.
“Thank you,” she murmured, turning her face toward his. “I … ”
That was all she got out, because then his mouth was lowering toward hers. The kiss started gently, a feather-light touch. A surge of heat ran through her body. She’d known it would if she ever touched him, kissed him, but this … The force of the jolt was unexpected. He pulled away slightly, his eyes gauging her reaction.
Then she launched herself at him.
It had been so long, so long since Marcus, so long since she’d let herself feel this electric current of desire. She claimed his mouth with hers, pulled his body to her like it had always belonged there, pressed against her.
He let out a groan from deep in his throat and advanced, pushing her backward until her back was pressed against the wall, his mouth devouring hers before he released it and began tasting her jaw and the tender skin of her neck.
“Oh. Oh my … oh. God.” Her body was on fire, mirroring the blazing colors of the horizon.
When they pulled apart, he was the one who was pushing her away, holding her at a distance with his hands against her shoulders.
“That was … Jesus. I need a minute.” He scrubbed at his face with his hands, grabbed his wine glass from the side table, downed the contents in one gulp, and then went into the house.
She leaned back against the side of the house, her pulse pounding, all thoughts of grief and sorrow forgotten.
She could feel the stupid grin on her face but couldn’t seem to remove it.
Holy hell.
She went into the house and found him emerging from the bathroom, where a bit of moisture at his collar told her he’d been in there splashing cold water on his face.
“Hey there,” she said, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Where’d you go?”
“Look, I didn’t mean … I’m sorry.”
“What the hell for?”
He fidgeted with his hands. “Well, you were upset, and I took advantage.”
“I’ve got to invite you over and get upset more often.”
From the look on his face, he seemed puzzled that his I’m a cad, you’re an innocent, oppressed damsel script was not working out.
“I should probably go,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“It’s just, you know. Before things get out of hand.”
“Would that be so bad?” She got up and walked toward him, and he backed up until his butt was against the kitchen counter.
“I’m serious.”
She could see that he was. They’d shared a moment of high-voltage electricity. And now he wanted to leave.
“Okay.” She tried to keep the disappointment and confusion out of her voice. “But what about the dinner? The cooking lesson. You’ve only showed me …”
“Take the pork roast out in”—he checked his watch—“about another hour.” He headed toward the door.
“What about the polenta? The salad?”
“I’ll email you the instructions.”
“But your pans! Your supplies!”
“Just keep them for now. You can get them back to me later.”
He hit the door at a near run. He was on the sidewalk and halfway to his car when she called after him. “Jackson!”
He stopped and turned toward her.
“Why the hell are you running away?”
He seemed as though he might answer, but then he simply got into his car and drove away, his tires screeching slightly on the pavement as he accelerated.