His Wife for a While (7 page)

Leaning closer to the glass,
Chelsea
whispered, "A twenty-eight-year-old virgin. He'll never believe it. Not in a million-billion years."

Well, he'd simply have to believe it, she thought, pushing herself away from the dresser and walking down the hallway and into the kitchen. He'd have proof in the end, when they finally... bumped uglies.
Chelsea
grinned despite her anxiety. She brushed her hand across her forehead. This wasn't something she was looking forward to. But it was necessary.

Oh. Come. On. The voice in her head taunted her. Really? Not looking forward to it?

Okay, so maybe she was a little curious. Hell, what twenty-eight-year-old virgin wouldn't be?

Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out an onion, the grated cheese and the sweet Italian sausage she'd bought earlier, and put her energies into making a casserole.

Thirty minutes later the pasta and meat were cooked, and the casserole was in the oven.
Chelsea
had turned her attention to setting the table when she heard the front door open.

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Ben called.

Chelsea
's hand froze, the dinner knife a scant inch from its proper place beside the plate.

He was still chuckling when he walked into the kitchen. Taking one look at her unsmiling face, his shoulders sagged. "It was a joke,
Chelsea
. Just a joke."

She nodded, but couldn't bring herself to smile. Of course it was a joke. No one would ever call her a pet name such as "honey" and mean it.

"Dinner will be ready soon," she said.

"I don't expect you to cook my meals."

"Well…" she shrugged "…I have to eat, too, you know. The dish I made may not be much, but you're welcome to share it."

"I wasn't implying that I didn't want to share the food…" He let the sentence trail and stared at her. Then he sighed. "I'll just go take a quick shower." He disappeared down the hall.

When he was gone,
Chelsea
sighed. Could things get any more awkward?

She discovered they could when they sat at the table to eat. The silence that settled down with them was excruciating.
Chelsea
lifted the lid off the casserole dish and the fragrant aroma of sausage and tomato sauce wafted through the kitchen.

Ben inhaled deeply. "I'm starved," he announced.

Without replying, she spooned him a large helping of the baked pasta and sliced a piece of warm, crusty bread.

"Did you bake this?" he asked, indicating the loaf of bread.

"No. Bought it in town at the bakery. I just heated it through."

She served herself and sat down to eat. But her curiosity made it difficult to keep her eyes on her plate. She wanted to look at him, wanted to watch his mannerisms as he ate. Was he enjoying the food she'd prepared? Did he…

"So…"

Chelsea
jumped at the sound of his voice.

"How was your day?"

"Fine," she answered.

He slathered butter on his bread. Then took a bite and chewed it slowly.

After a moment, he asked, "So, what did you do this afternoon?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing much."

He looked at her for several long seconds, seconds during which her nerves had ample time to become frayed as she wondered what he was thinking.

Finally, he set down his fork and rested his elbows on the table.

She could stand his scrutiny no longer. "What?" she asked.

"I'm trying to make some friendly conversation here."

"Oh."
Chelsea
reached for her glass of iced tea and took a drink. "My day was fine." Picking up her fork, she speared a slice of spicy sausage and lifted it toward her mouth.

"Well?" he asked.

Her hand froze, the fork hovering directly in front of her face.

"Aren't you going to ask me about my day?"

She hadn't thought to return the question.

"
Chelsea
, people who live together and spend time together talk to one another." He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Okay, so it may be pointless and useless conversation, but it's conversation nevertheless."

Taking the meat between her teeth, she chewed thoughtfully. After a moment she gazed at him. "Okay, I'll play," she said after she swallowed. "So how was your day?"

Ben grinned. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He reached for a second slice of bread and tore a small piece from it and dipped it into the tomato sauce. "My day was good. I saw Tim Richmond in town this morning."

"Who?"

"The little, fat guy. From the auction house. The one who put that damned sign post up out front."

She nodded in understanding and grinned. "Yes. The sign that stayed erect for all of five minutes. I remember. Did you two have words?"

"Actually, we didn't." He looked pleased with himself. "All I did was lift up my left hand and spread my fingers so he could see real clear." Ben chuckled. "He thought I was making a rude gesture, and when he saw I wasn't, he seemed a little confused. So I pointed to my ring. His eyes wouldn't have bulged bigger even if I'da jabbed him in the nose. He was
shocked
." Ben's shoulders were shaking with his laughter. "Best punch I never threw."   

His mood was infectious and she found herself grinning right along with him.

He popped the bread into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. "I got a lot done today. There are enough trees on the orchard to keep me busy pruning eleven months out of the year, and that's no exaggeration. But you know that already, don't you?"

Chelsea
nodded in response.

"I finished up the Barn Grove today. I'll have the crew move on to Old Lew's Place tomorrow." He stopped a moment to take a drink of iced tea. "I'll go out there with the men for a while, then I'll come back to the office to catch up on some paperwork."

Again, she nodded, but silence quickly fell between them again.

Ben slid his elbow off the table's edge and picked up his fork. The quiet must have gotten to him because he said, "You can jump right in on this little chat any time you like."

Keeping to herself most of the time,
Chelsea
wasn't well practiced in the art of friendly conversation. She did see a few other volunteers at the nature center now and then, but talk there usually centered around the animals or work that needed doing. She went to church every Sunday, but there she said nothing more than "hello" and "goodbye" and "see you next week." She cleared her throat.

"Is it hard?" she asked, her voice tentative.

"What? The pruning?" Ben shook his head. "Nah. Since Granddad and I planted all the dwarf trees, pruning is fairly easy. Just takes a few quick snips." One corner of his mouth curled. "It's just that there's so many darn trees to snip."

Chelsea
nodded and suddenly felt pressured to come up with another question.

"Um... how did the different groves get to be named?" She swallowed nervously, wondering if the questions sounded as dumb to him as it did to her. She rushed to explain, so he wouldn't think she was a total moron. "I mean, I know the Barn Grove is named for the big red barn out in the middle of the orchard. But what about the grove you call Old Lew's Place? Or
Devon
's Place? Or...or Accident
Acre
?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Most of the groves are named after the people we bought the land from," he told her. "Granddad bought Old Lew's Place from Old Lew years and years ago. Old Lew was nearly a hundred years old at the time and didn't want to sell, but he became too ill to farm, so he sold his land to Granddad. Granddad bought
Devon
's Place from Richard Devon while I was still in college." Then he chuckled. "Now, Accident Acre is another story. Granddad bought that small parcel of ground before I was born. As I heard it, three men were hurt on the same day when they were clearing off the scrub brush. Grandad had to call the doctor to come, back when doctors made house calls, right after breakfast, again right after lunch, and a third time just before quitting time. So Granddad referred to the grove as Accident Acre."

"Oh," she said.

The panic that crawled in her stomach as she searched for something,
anything
, to say must have showed on her face because Ben sighed as he slid out his chair, stood and picked up his plate. On his way to the sink, he asked, "You're really not used to this, are you?"

"Not used to what?" she said, even though she knew very well what he was referring to.

"Talking. You know. Back and forth. Verbal banter. Chit chat." He turned to face her.

She dipped her head low, not wanting him to witness her embarrassment. She saw her hands in her lap, her fingers clenching the napkin tightly. "No, I'm not," she quietly admitted. "But I'll try harder."

The invisible touch of his green eyes made her lift her gaze to his. She saw him smile gently.

"It's okay," he said. "We'll get used to each other."

He came over to stand beside her and covered her hand with his. And even though
Chelsea
knew this was a gesture of reassurance on his part, she automatically distanced herself from him, slipping her fingers from underneath his. She didn't want to push him away, but a habit learned from years of emotional survival was impossible to deny.

Awkwardness surrounded them like a thick fog.
Chelsea
tried to ignore it by busying herself with the task of clearing the table.

"I'll do this," Ben told her, taking the salt and pepper shakers from her hands. "You cooked. It's only fair that I clean up. Go on into the other room and relax. Prop your feet up."

Chelsea
was relieved for an excuse to leave the kitchen. She sat down on the sofa, picked up a magazine and absently thumbed through the pages, not seeing the informative articles or the colorful advertisements.

Why did Ben have to be so... nice? He was a good person, a wonderful man. And she'd found it hard not to look at him. She wanted badly to deny that she found him so darn good looking, that she was attracted to his sun-bleached hair, his jewel green eyes, his easy smile.

She heard the water running as he rinsed off the plates and utensils; the glassware clinked together as he loaded it into the dishwasher.

Thoughts of what the two of them would do later this evening forced their way into her mind. It was difficult for her to imagine going to bed with such a beautiful man. She had no experience, other than the television shows and movies she'd seen and books she'd read. But she and Ben wouldn't be engaging in the soft, passionate lovemaking depicted in romantic comedies and trashy novels. No,
Chelsea
imagined hers would be a quick, unemotional coupling. How could she expect anything else?

And did that even matter?

"No," she murmured to herself.