don't you let me do this, while you deal with the steaks?"
"You cook?"
"Yes." Laughing, she began to tear the lettuce leaves. "Do you?"
"No." She smelled like wildflowers, fresh and delicate. He had to fight
back an urge to press his lips to her throat. When he smoothed her hair
behind her back, she lifted her head, eyes wary. "I never imagined you
cooking."
"I like to."
He was standing close, but not so close that she felt afraid. As she
scrubbed a green pepper she realized she wasn't afraid around him.
Uneasy perhaps, but not afraid.
"You're good at this."
"I took top honors in vegetable chopping five years running." She
brushed him away. "Go start the grill."
Later, she carried the salad out to a round wooden table beside a
pathetic bed of petunias. A critical glance told her he was handling
the steaks well enough, so she went back in. Emma wasn't sure what to
make of the giant package of paper plates in the cupboard. A further
search unearthed a trio of empty beer bottles, a drawer full of ketchup
and mustard packets, and a mother lode of Chef Boyardee pasta meals in a
can. She checked the dishwasher, discovered that was where he stored
his laundry, and wondered if he had a clothes hamper somewhere full of
dishes and flatware.
She found them in the microwave-two pretty china plates with baby roses
painted around the edges, matching bowls, and a pair of steak knives and
forks.
By the time he'd grilled the steaks, she had the table set as best she
could.
"I couldn't find any salad dressing," she told him.
"Salad dressing. Right." He set the steaks down. Now that she was
here, looking so right, so simply right smiling at him with one hand
resting on the dog's head, he thought it was foolish to try to pretend
he knew what he was doing with the meal.
If they were to get to know each other, really get to know each
other this time around, she might as well see what she was getting into
from the first.
"Make sure Conroy doesn't get any idea about these," he said then walked
to the chain-link fence and swung over. He was back in a few moments
with a bottle of Wishbone and a fat blue candle. "Mrs. Petrowski says
hello."
With a laugh, Emma glanced over and saw a woman leaning out of the back
door of the house next door. Because it seemed natural, she waved
before she turned back to Michael.
"Her dishes?"
"Yeah."
"They're very nice."
"I wanted to do better than a burger on the beach this time around."
Cautious, she passed him the salad. "I'm glad you asked me to come. We
didn't have much of a chance to talk when you came to New York. I'm
sorry I didn't have a chance to show you around."