The Red Hat Society's Domestic Goddess (13 page)

Her traitorous knees weakened. She locked them and stood firmly in place… too close to him. She could smell the fresh scent
of soap clinging to his skin and see the dampness of his salt and pepper hair, straight from his shower. “
I
don’t scare.”

He tilted his head, studying her as if to judge the veracity of her words. Then he nodded.

“But what are you doing lurking around my patio,” she glanced at her watch, “at this hour?”

In the bright glow of the yard light, his face flushed with color. “Not what you think—”

“What do I think?” she asked, trying hard to keep the amusement out of her voice. He was so darned cute, and his name was
George. Now she struggled to hold in a sigh.

“Hopefully that I got home from work and noticed the light in the back. You didn’t have any on upstairs. I got worried. Thought
I should check it out.”

“And you couldn’t do that with a phone call?”

“You haven’t given me your number.”

He hadn’t asked. But she wasn’t about to point
that
out. “You’re a smart cop.” She’d asked her dad, or as everyone, herself included, called him—Chief—about George. From the
sudden light flickering in his dark eyes, she guessed he’d figured that out. She ignored that little twinkle and said, “You
should have been able to find it.”

“You’re unlisted.”

She struggled to control the smile teasing her lips. “What does that tell you?”

“That you don’t want to be bothered.”

She touched the tip of her nose with her free hand.

“So I got it on the nose,” he correctly interpreted her gesture. “You don’t want to give me your number because I
bother
you.”

He wasn’t just cute like George Clooney; he was a flirt, too. Kim could recognize one because she frequently flirted herself,
but only when she felt safe… like with Mr. Lindstrom.
He
couldn’t catch her. George Fowler might.

“Don’t take it personally,” she assured him, ignoring
his innuendo… and trying to ignore his closeness. “Everyone bothers me.”

“Is that why you’re up so late?” he asked, switching gears so fast that she was a bit confused.

“Late?”

“Your lights are never on when I get home… except tonight.” His voice deepened when he asked, “Were you waiting up for me?”

The man could turn the flirty charm on and off like a faucet.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “I had a little caffeine tonight.”

“In the class.” He nodded. “So how did it go?”

She released her sigh this time, unable to hold in her concern about Millie’s hopeless optimism. Hopeless optimism? Now there
was an oxymoron.

“Sounds like a story here,” George surmised. “Come over and tell me about it. I was about to fix my after-shift snack. I’ll
feed you, too.”

She was pretty sure he wouldn’t burn anything… except maybe her if she got too close. “It’s late.”

“You just said you had too much caffeine. Come on. I have herbal tea.” He reached for her hand but got Harry instead and tugged
on it.

She had to follow him.

His own walkout basement was decorated as more of a rec room than a family room. A pool table took up half of the space, with
a pub table and chairs pulled near it. On the other side, a big screen TV held center court in front of a sectional, leather
couch. It was a man’s fantasy room in which he could watch sports and play and
scratch himself without having to worry about the disapproval of a wife or girlfriend. From his basement alone, Kim figured
George was probably as commitment phobic as she.

Her nerves settled down a bit. She followed him upstairs. The kitchen was more homey and functional than hers. Rich red walls
contrasted sharply with the white cabinets and gleaming countertops. Appliances, the built-ins as well as the smaller ones
that lobbied for space on the counter, were state of the art.

“Nice,” she said. “You actually use your kitchen?”

“You don’t use yours?” he asked around the refrigerator door while he rummaged inside. Over his broad shoulder, she could
see that it was full of food, not just the beer she would have thought prerequisite for a bachelor.

“No, I do. I just thought…”

“That because I’m single and a guy that I would need your bachelor survival course?” He lifted a brow as he set the tea kettle
on the stove. Then he set about slicing and dicing the vegetables he’d pulled from the crisper.

Why had he teased her about private lessons if he already knew how to cook? She wasn’t about to ask him that, though. She
didn’t want to remind him of the flirting.

“Don’t worry. I won’t poison you with my food,” he promised. “I did all of the cooking while I was married.”

“All of it?” she asked, coloring her voice with skepticism. “Why would any woman divorce a man who’d cooked every meal?”

“Why do you assume
she
divorced
me?”
he retorted.

Kim’s lips curved into a begrudging smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t assume.”

He shrugged. “You were right. She did divorce me. Hated my shift. Hated my career,” he said dismissively, as if it hadn’t
mattered. But Kim could hear the echo of old pain in his voice even though he hid it well under nonchalance.

“And you did all the cooking?” she asked, still unable to comprehend such a man. Her fiancés had been the type who’d expected
to be waited on, not wait on anyone else. The former Mrs. Fowler must have
really
hated his job.

“Yes,” he maintained. “I was the better cook. My mama taught me well.”

“Don’t let Millie hear you say that,” she cautioned. “The whole reason the class started—”

“Was for her sons,” he finished. “Theresa told me.”

Theresa. He’d already gotten on a first name basis with the traitor, but then Theresa was Hilltop’s welcome wagon. She hadn’t
invited Kim to participate, saying that she’d scare away the new residents rather than welcome them. Well, she hadn’t scared
George away… even after he met Harry.

He was quick as well as comfortable in the kitchen. In no time, she had a cup of tea and half a Western omelet in front of
her where she sat at the breakfast bar. She lifted the fork he’d placed beside her plate and cautiously sank it into the eggs.
No puff of smoke rose from them, as they had from Mr. Lindstrom’s when she’d tested his. Her stomach churned at just the memory
of that inedible mess. But then it rumbled as the aroma of
red, green, and yellow peppers and onions wafted from her plate. She lifted a forkful to her mouth, and the flavors exploded
on her tongue. “Mmmm…”

George hadn’t taken a seat; he stood at the counter across from her. Instead of eating his after-shift snack, he watched her,
his dark eyes unfathomable. “Good?”

She nodded, then swallowed, so she could speak. “Your mama did teach you well.”

Later, after shoveling in the rest of the omelet, she asked, “Did she also teach you to decorate?” She gestured with the fork
she’d licked clean, at the bright crimson kitchen walls.

He grimaced. “No, she did the decorating up here. Got the idea for red from the group she’s in.”

“What group is that?” she asked.

He lifted a picture from the wall between the kitchen and dining room and showed it to Kim. It was a group of women all garbed
in purple with bright, red hats atop their heads.

“She’s a member of the Red Hat Society?” Kim asked. No wonder she had such great taste.

He smiled as he looked at the picture, too. “Yeah, they’re a fun bunch.”

“I know. I belong to a chapter here at Hilltop with Millie and Theresa.”

He shook his head. “You’re too young.”

“I just switched from a pink hat to a red one this year,” she said proudly. In fact, Millie and Theresa had presented her
with a wide-brimmed, be-feathered one for her fiftieth birthday, when one was able to become an official Red Hat Society member.
The hat looked smashing
with her little purple suit. Of course, on her birthday, she’d worn a purple hat, used only for birthdays, along with a hot
red suit.

“You were only a few years older than me when you taught my gym class in high school,” he said. “All the guys fantasized about
Miss O’Malley.”

Her face heated as she remembered overhearing a Miss O’Malley comment or two. Then she almost asked him if he’d had fantasies,
but she resisted the temptation. Like she should have resisted joining him for his snack. She slid off the stool and stood.
“I really need to head home…”

“And I bet they still do…” he said softly, just under his breath.

Although she chose to ignore his comment, she heard him. And a little thrill raced through her. “Thanks,” she said, a bit
breathlessly, as she headed toward his door. “For the omelet… and the tea.”

Not the compliment. She was determined to ignore that. But she had to get away from him, from the temptation that was quickening
her pulse and heating her skin. She excused her reaction because it was late. And she was tired.

All she had to do was open his side door, slip out of his garage, and walk a few short steps to her side door. Then she’d
be safe. As she pulled open the door, his hand caught the top, holding it shut.

“You forgot something,” he said, his deep voice rumbling close to her ear as his warm breath blew across the sensitive skin
of her neck. She fought against the shiver teasing her nerve endings.

Was he going to kiss her? She hardly knew him; she’d have to hurt him if he tried anything. Then he pressed something cold
and hard into her hand.

“You forgot Harry,” he said, before opening the door for her.

She glanced at him over her shoulder as she stepped into the dimly lit garage. Amusement danced in his dark eyes, tempting
her to pull the trigger. He deserved at least one welt for scaring her not once… but twice.

But she wasn’t about to admit that he’d done that… to him… or herself.

“Goodnight,” he called after her, as she fled to the safety of her condo. But it didn’t feel safe… with only a wall between
them. He was much too close.

M
om, I hope you’re happy,” Mitchell grumbled as he staggered through the door. “I drove over here with my eyes closed.”

She ignored the anxious little flip of her heart. “Well, the important thing is that you got here in one piece,” she said,
pulling him toward the kitchen.

“Too bad there’s a squirrel that won’t be able to say the same—”

“You hit a squirrel!” she exclaimed, slapping his arm. “Mitchell—”

“I’m kidding. It’s too dark yet for squirrels. They’re still sleeping, like I should be.” Instead he was all dressed for work,
well, but for his tie. That was undone, like half the buttons on his shirt. But he wore his suit
jacket and pants. His hair, however, needed to be brushed and trimmed.

Millie shook her head even as a smile tugged at her lips. He was just so darned cute.

He closed his eyes again and sniffed the air. “Where’s the coffee?”

“You’re making it,” she said, steeling herself to resist the temptation to help. “You’re here to do your homework.”

She hadn’t trusted him to do it alone in his apartment. If he bothered to try, he might have set off the sprinklers in the
ceiling of the converted warehouse space.

“Mom, I have to go to work—”

“That’s why you’re here so early,” she reminded him. “So you better get fixing that coffee—”

He whirled away from the kitchen and headed back down the hall.

“Mitchell!” She figured he was heading back for his car, then his bed. But instead he tromped down to the basement.

“I’m not suffering alone,” he griped, stepping on the chip bag which popped and crunched as the chips exploded over the carpet.
He slipped on the foil package, grinding the chips into crumbs.

Millie bit her bottom lip. She’d forgotten about that bag. After the class, she’d been too tired to come downstairs and clean
again. Obviously Steven had just stepped over it and continued to the bedroom, like Mitchell was now doing.

She chased after him. “Shhh… don’t wake him up. He doesn’t have to be at work—”

Over his shoulder, Mitchell threw her a look, his dark eyes narrowed with disgust. “Until nine. I know.” But then he swung
the bedroom door open with such force that it banged against the wall. He hit the switch, flooding the room with light. “Hey,
sleepyhead. Time to rise and shine.”

Steven, buried under a pile of blankets, shifted against the pillows, muttering a curse word and, “Go away…”

Chips clinging to the soles of his shoes, Mitchell grabbed one of the four posters and leapt onto the bed, jumping up and
down. “Get up, get up, get up!”

Millie opened her mouth to protest Mitchell’s childish antics, but all that emanated from her throat was a laugh.

“Mom!” Steven exclaimed, sounding more irritated with her than his brother, as he sat up and blinked bleary eyes. Puffy dark
circles rimmed them.

Guilt nipped at Millie, making her wince. Her oldest wasn’t sleeping well. This wasn’t his bed, and he undoubtedly missed
his wife. The guilt quickly evaporated. She was doing the right thing. “Get up,” she echoed Mitchell’s sentiment. “You two
have homework to do.”

Steven sank back into the bed and pulled his pillow over his face. But the feathered filling didn’t muffle his curses.

“You’re not too old for me to get out the soap,” she warned him before heading for the stairs. If not for them both having
to leave for work soon, she would have taken out the vacuum and sucked up the chip mess before it ground any deeper into the
plush, tan carpeting.
But she didn’t have time; she’d just have to push the mess out of her mind for now.

“Come on!” she yelled back at the boys. “I’m dying for coffee.”

And a short while later, as she choked on the grounds Mitchell had brewed, she suspected it might kill her. Drinking his coffee
had the same effect as licking a cat; she couldn’t get the tickling out of the back of her throat.

Steven, in a ratty old T-shirt and loose, gray sweatpants, stood by the stove, blindly pushing a spatula around a pan.

“Honey, those should be done by now,” Millie remarked, just as the smoke alarm emanated an ear-piercing screech.