wasn’t worried about strings. I’m not very good company right now, to be honest.”
“My usual dinner companions are eight and five. I love them, but they aren’t the most stimulating conversationalists in the world.”
“So the bar is low, then?”
She laughed, really liking his droll sense of humor. “Very low. Come on. It’s lasagna. Nothing fancy.”
“Homemade lasagna?” he asked, his ears perking up.
“Is there another kind?”
“What time do you want me there?”
She glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes? That will give me a chance to get the boys cleaned up and a salad made. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
“Okay, then.”
Sophie headed back for the hedge, leaning over to wind the hose as she went. And doing her best not to wonder if he was watching her leave. She hoped not. Her bottom was definitely not her best feature.
CHAPTER FOUR
EXACTLY FORTY-FIVE minutes later, Jack stood at Sophie’s door, a half gallon of ice cream in one hand and a bunch of regrets in the other. Why had he said yes? He really wasn’t up for socializing, no matter how casual it was. He was exhausted, in pain, and more than a little cranky—though he hated admitting that, as it made him feel like an overwrought toddler. And with a full day at the clinic ahead of him tomorrow, plus another damn physical-therapy appointment, he’d be better off going to bed early. Right now his job and recovery were taking all his energy. He didn’t need any more complications. This was the last thing he should be doing right now.
Yet, here he was. About to start a friendship he wasn’t the least bit certain he could keep up. He’d rung the doorbell twice, had waited more than long enough to be polite. If he wanted, he could take the melting container of ice cream and head home. After all, he’d lived up to his side of the bargain. He’d shown up, prepared to sit on a hard wooden chair and make uncomfortable small talk when all he really wanted was to be at home nursing his aching leg—the pain exacerbated by the water war.
He tried to tell himself he’d been seduced by the promise of homemade lasagna, but that wasn’t strictly true. After all, with his appetite the way it was, he probably wouldn’t be able to do the meal justice. Really, any company was better than his own. Pasting on a smile he was far from feeling, he knocked one more time to be thorough, and when there was no answer he was about to turn around and say to hell with it. But then the door flew open. This time, Sophie was the wet one, her bright purple tank top clinging to her in all the right places.
He might not be interested—in dating or in a relationship—but he’d have to be dead not to notice all those lush curves, especially when they were showcased so spectacularly. She had large, full breasts, a tiny waist and hips that his fingers itched to sink into. Her red-gold hair was piled in a messy bun and her green eyes had the same innate amusement he’d seen earlier in the yard. It was a good look on her.
“I’m sorry,” she said a little breathlessly, stepping back to let him into her home. “The boys were taking their bath and…” She trailed off with a laugh. “Let’s just say they got a little over-enthusiastic. Which, I’m sure you have no trouble imagining.”
“They were incredibly subdued when I saw them earlier,” he replied, tongue firmly in cheek. He stepped into the foyer.
“I noticed that.” She glanced down. “You brought ice cream?”
“I haven’t had a chance to pick up any wine. And I figured the boys would appreciate this more, anyway.”
“Chocolate-chip cookie dough is a particular favorite around here. You’ve already passed the cool test with your willingness to join the water fight this afternoon, but this will send you soaring through the stratosphere.”
“Thanks, I guess.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was a little wary of the way she spoke as if her kids had plans to keep him around for a while. He might be the new neighbor, but he had no intention of becoming part of the regular landscape around here. What was the point when he had less than no desire to stick around Atlanta at all?
Even more ill at ease than he’d been previously, Jack followed Sophie through a brightly colored living room filled with children’s toys into a friendly, well-lit kitchen. It was nice, not as fancy as the one at his house, but clearly used more often. The walls were a warm yellow and the counters were a dark gray granite. He liked it, especially the bay window above the sink. It was filled with colorful pots holding abundant herbs that filled the room with a rich earthy scent. It reminded him of the time he’d spent in South America.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked to be polite, though he prayed she’d say no. He wanted to help, but his hand hurt from overuse and the muscles were spasming and aching so much that he figured it’d be a miracle if he could hold a fork correctly. He figured it was payback for the three physical-therapy appointments he’d missed during the course of the move.
“Actually, you could put the salad on the table,” she told him, nodding to a large wooden bowl on the counter. “I tossed it with olive oil and vinegar before it registered that you might have preferred something else.” She flushed a little. “Sorry. We don’t get a lot of company, to be honest.”
“Oil and vinegar is fine.” He used his good hand to lift the bowl and carry it to the wide table at the end of the room. “Everything smells delicious.”
“Yeah, well, lasagna’s hard to screw up.”
He laughed, despite the pain shooting up one arm and down his leg. “You sound surprised.”
“No. Relieved,” she said with her own laugh. It was a larger than life sound, one that filled the room to the brim with joy. He liked it, too. “Sometimes my cooking can be a little sketchy,” she told him. “I have a tendency to get distracted in the middle of a recipe and sometimes things take a turn for the…well, let’s call the result interesting.”
He must have looked a little alarmed because she hastened to add, “But not with Italian food. I can make spaghetti, fettuccini and lasagna with the best of them. A leftover from my days at Mama Maria’s.”
“You learned to cook in an Italian restaurant?”
“I learned to cook in an Italian foster home.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her eyes widened. Like she couldn’t believe what she’d told him.
He didn’t want to make her feel more uncomfortable by responding. The fact of the matter was, people often told him things they would otherwise keep to themselves. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. For whatever reason, people trusted him and, more often than not, spilled their guts. It never used to bother him, but these days it made him uneasy. Not the confidences, but the trust implicit in them. He didn’t deserve that trust, hadn’t deserved it since he stood in a Somali clinic and let a bunch of monsters kill his patient and his nurse, both of whom had been under his care. Both of whom he’d been responsible for.
Silence stretched between them, and as guilt rode him hard, he thought about breaking it with a witty comment, a funny anecdote. He had any number of tricks in his slick and charming bag. Or he could say something sincere and comforting, but that might encourage some kind of bonding moment and that was the last thing he wanted. Terrible as it seemed, he didn’t have the will or energy for any of this.
Sophie cleared her throat as she fiddled with the necklace that nestled in the hollow of her throat. “Let me get the lasagna on the table and we can eat.”
He nodded cautiously. “Sounds good. Thank you.”
Before she could say anything else, Kyle came flying into the room, Noah at his heels. “I’m going to kill you!” Sophie’s oldest son shouted as he chased his brother around the center island. “Give it back!”