mostly of mown weeds and edged by two large flower beds that held a jumble of plants of all shapes and sizes in no particular order. Reece was no horticulturist but he was fairly sure that Shannon was growing an astoundingly healthy crop of dandelions, among other things.
“I don’t advise looking at my flower beds if you’re a gardener,” she said, following his glance as she rejoined him. “I’m told that the state of my gardens is enough to bring on palpitations in anyone who actually knows something about plants.”
“What I know about plants can be written on the head of a pin.”
“Good. I may call on you for backup when the garden police come around.” For an instant, in her cutoffs and T-shirt, her hair dragged back from her face, her wide mouth curved in a smile, her eyes bright with laughter, she looked like a mischievous child. But she was definitely all grown up, Reece thought, his eyes skimming her body almost compulsively as she stepped onto the narrow porch and pushed open the front door. It took a conscious effort of will to drag his eyes from the way the worn denim of her shorts molded the soft curves of her bottom.
The last thing he wanted was to get involved with anyone, he reminded himself. He was here to clean out his grandfather’s house and maybe, while he was at it, figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He didn’t need any complications. Breakfast was one thing, especially when it came with caffeine, but anything else was out of the question.
And if his new neighbor would be willing to start wearing baggy clothes and put a paper sack over her head, he just might be able to remember that.
The interior of the house continued the pseudo-Spanish theme of the exterior. The floor of the small entryway was covered with dark-red tiles, and arch-ways led off in various directions. Through one, he could see a living room, which looked almost as uncoordinated as the flower beds out front. A sofa upholstered in fat pink roses sat at right angles to an over-stuffed chair covered in blue plaid. Both faced a small fireplace. The end table next to the sofa was completely covered in magazines and books. In one corner of the room, there was a sewing machine in a cabinet. Heaped over and around it and trailing onto the floor, there were piles of brightly colored fabric. The comfortable clutter made it obvious that this was a room where someone actually lived, and he couldn’t help but compare it to the painful neatness of his grandfather’s house—everything in its place, everything organized with military precision. The whole place had a sterile feeling that made it hard to believe it had been someone’s home for more than forty years. Pushing the thought aside, Reece followed Shannon through an archway on the left of the entryway.
The kitchen was in a similar state of comfortable disarray. It was not a large room but light colors and plenty of windows made it seem bigger than it was. White cupboards and a black-and-white, checkerboard-patterned floor created a crisp, modern edge, but the yellow floral curtains and brightly colored ceramic cups and canisters added a cheerfully eclectic touch.
“Have a seat,” Shannon said, gesturing to the small maple table that sat under a window looking out onto the backyard.
Reece chose to lean against the counter instead, his eyes following her as she got out a cup and poured coffee into it.
“Cream or sugar?” she asked as she handed him the cup. “I don’t actually have cream, but I think I’ve got milk.”
“Black is fine.” Reece lifted the cup and took a sip, risking a scalded tongue in his eagerness. But it was worth it, he thought as the smooth, rich taste filled his mouth. “This is terrific coffee,” he said, sipping again.
“It’s a blend of beans that I buy at a little coffee shop downtown. They roast it themselves.” She opened a cupboard, stared into it for a moment and then closed the door.
“You do your own grinding?”
“I haven’t figured out yet whether or not it actually makes a difference but the guy who runs the shop sneers if you ask him to grind it for you.”
Shannon opened the refrigerator door, and Reece felt his stomach rumble inquiringly. It had been a long time since dinner last night, and if she cooked half as well as she made coffee, breakfast was bound to be special. Relaxing back against the counter, he sipped his coffee and allowed his eyes to linger on her legs with absentminded appreciation while he entertained fantasies of bacon and eggs or maybe waffles slathered in butter and maple syrup or—
“How do you feel about Froot Loops?”
Chapter 3
“I haven’t really given them much thought,” Reece admitted cautiously.
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having them for breakfast?” she asked. “I have that and Pepsi.”
“Pepsi?” An image of multicolored, sugar-coated bits of cereal floating in a sea of flat cola flashed through his mind, and his stomach lurched. “On the Froot Loops?” he asked faintly.
“Of course not!” Shannon’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “With it, not poured over it.”
It seemed a marginal improvement. Reece took another swallow of coffee and tried to decide just how polite he should be in turning down her offer. It seemed a pity to offend someone who made coffee this good.
Shannon sighed abruptly and pushed the refrigerator door shut with a thud. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted upward. “The truth is, I don’t cook.” Her tone mixed apology and defiance. “In fact, I’m a complete disaster in the kitchen. I live on frozen dinners and junk food. Coffee is the only thing I can cook without destroying it, and that’s only because it’s an automatic pot.”
“You invited me to breakfast,” he reminded her mildly.
“I know.” She sighed and spread her hands in a gesture that might have been apology. “It was Edith’s idea.”
“Cacklemeyer suggested you should ask me to breakfast?” His brows rose in disbelief.
Shannon shook her head. “She said I shouldn’t. She came across the street while I was working in the garden.”
Reece took a fortifying swallow of coffee and tried to sort out the conversation. “She walked across the street to tell you not to invite me to breakfast?”
“Not exactly.” She scowled and shoved her hands in the back pockets of her cutoffs. His eyes dropped to the soft curves of her breasts, pure male appreciation momentarily distracting him from both the conversation and the emptiness of his stomach. “She came across the street to tell me to pull my marigolds and that you were sure to cause trouble. So, I told her I liked marigolds and that I was going to invite you to breakfast. I hadn’t planned on it, obviously.”
“The marigolds or breakfast?” he asked, fascinated by her circuitous conversational style.
“Breakfast,” she said, her eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I knew I liked marigolds but I didn’t know I was going to invite you to breakfast until she annoyed me.”
“So this was all part of a plot to irritate Cacklemeyer?” A more sensitive man would probably be offended, Reece thought.
“I don’t think you could call it a plot.” Shannon’s tone was thoughtful. “If it had been a plot, I would have planned a little better and bought some decent food. Oh, wait!” Her eyes lit up suddenly. “There’s a box of waffles in the freezer, but I don’t think I have any syrup. I have grape jelly, though,” she added hopefully.
Reece barely restrained a shudder. Her idea of “decent” and his were not quite the same. Nothing—not the best coffee he’d had in months, not five feet eight inches of long-legged, blue-eyed, dangerously attractive redhead—could make him eat toaster waffles spread with grape jelly.
Shannon must have read something of his thoughts, because her hopeful expression faded into vague suspicion. “Are you a health food nut? One of those people who only eats roots and berries and never lets a preservative touch their lips?”