bilingual. My parents are from Costa Rica. They were little when their families fled, though, so they grew up here, and so did I.” She found the key in a side compartment.
“Fled?” he queried. “Costa Rica doesn’t sound like a place you’d want to run away from.”
“There was a revolt about fifty years ago. Both sets of grandparents were forced into exile.” Her world history classes hadn’t mentioned the event, but it certainly mattered to her family. “The U.S. granted them asylum.”
“Did they ever go back?”
“Only to visit. They brought me with them when I was about ten. I remember beautiful beaches and a bustling marketplace. And friendly people.” She eased inside. Barry hesitated only a beat before accepting her unspoken invitation.
Inviting a man into her home at this hour might not be the wisest choice. With her mood elevated, however, Sonya didn’t see the harm.
A lamp brought out the room’s intense hues: pumpkin walls, a blue sofa with patterned cushions and a framed red-and-orange weaving above the corner desk. The intensity energized her.
“Whoa!” Barry pretended to shade his eyes.
“I’m going to rustle up an omelet. Care for some?” Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how hungry she’d grown.
“Sure. Can I help?” He tossed off the question as if accustomed to accompanying women into kitchens. Perhaps he was.
At the restaurant, Sonya’s mother had supervised the cuisine while her father had run the service operation. As for Reuben, he wouldn’t have dreamed of offering to cook. Yet Barry struck her as genuinely interested in helping. “Well, sure.”
He caught her off guard a second time by rinsing the breakfast dishes in the sink and loading them into the dishwasher. As she pulled a bowl and a frying pan from beneath the counter, Sonya was surprised to find him so domestic.
He joined her at the refrigerator to study the contents. Although they didn’t touch, her body registered his sheltering nearness with pleasure.
“Potatoes.” He indicated a bag in a lower bin. “Those would fry up nicely.”
“I wasn’t planning to fix an entire meal,” she protested.
“I’ll do it.”
She met his amused gaze. He’d assumed she would understand what he meant.
“This ought to be interesting.” Sonya retrieved the ingredients she’d sought: eggs, milk, jalapeños, cheese and mushrooms.
In addition to the potatoes, Barry fetched olive oil, garlic salt and a couple of onions from the cupboard. After tossing his coat across a chair, he found a peeler and got down to business. They worked side by side, him at the cutting board and her setting up by the stove.
He stripped away the skins with practiced speed. The possibility that he’d been assigned to a prison kitchen crossed Sonya’s mind. Again, she dismissed any such discussion as disrespectful of him.
“What’s your kitchen like at home?” she asked, instead.
“Large and old-fashioned. My sister and I share a house.” He didn’t appear to resent her curiosity. “Mostly we eat carryout or Karen fixes dinner, but once in a while the spirit moves me to get creative.” A peeling landed on his shirt. He plucked it off, leaving a damp spot.
“Aprons. I should have thought of that sooner.” From a drawer, Sonya produced a pair of large ones. She set a red-and-white check beside him on the counter and adjusted the pink flowered one over her top and jeans. “Do you do laundry, too, or foist that on your sister?”
He rinsed a couple of spuds, splattering water on his shirt in the process. “She’d skewer me if I tried. Would you mind putting that on me? My hands are dirty.”
She’d never tied an apron on another person before, Sonya mused as she assessed the logistics. “You’ll have to bend a little.” When he complied, she slipped the upper loop over his head and let the apron fall in front.
Reaching for the strings required putting her arms around him. A large, hard-muscled shape filled Sonya’s grasp, and she hesitated to let go. Not only because she’d missed holding a man, but because Barry simply felt right.
Then she heard his breath catch. If she wasn’t careful, she might inspire a thoroughly male reaction that she didn’t intend.
Or did she?
Sonya tied the ribbons, grateful that he couldn’t see her flushed face. “That ought to do the trick.”
“Thanks for the personal service.” A dry attempt at humor.
She got busy cracking eggs, her arms humming with the feel of him. When she adopted children, she vowed, she was going to hug their wiggly little bodies all day. But kids weren’t what she ached for right now.
Barry progressed from peeling to cutting up the vegetables. “May I borrow a jalapeño?”
She handed him one. “That’s an interesting recipe.”
“I’m inventing as I go.” He examined the spuds in front of him. “Hmm. Little red spots.”
What spots? At this late hour, they might be an optical disturbance. “You should sit down.”
“I meant, I’m visualizing them. What am I thinking of? Pimientos!”
She smiled at her goof. “Try the pantry.”
Barry returned with two small jars containing pimientos and capers. “A south-of-the-border theme.”
“Capers are more French or Italian than Latino,” she noted.
“My mother’s of French descent. Okay, it’s a multicultural dish.” He heated oil in a pan and transferred the ingredients before washing up. “This will take longer than the omelets. You should wait a few minutes.”
“I’ll set the table.” Sonya removed two plates from a cabinet. The motion tipped her off balance, right into Barry.
Two large hands clasped her waist and his breath tickled her neck. She wished he’d turn her around, lower his mouth and drive caution away.
Instead, he released her. A Southern gentleman, unfortunately.
She didn’t have the nerve to admit how much she wanted the embrace to continue. That could lead only one place, and she had better judgment. But almost wished she didn’t.
“Sorry I’m so clumsy.” After transferring the plates to the table, she arranged napkins from a basket.
Barry studied her. “You don’t have to apologize. Just send clear messages, okay? Whatever suits you is okay with me.”
How could she send clear messages with her impulses in conflict? “I’m so off-kilter I’m not sure what I mean.”
“Given my record, I have to be careful not to misinterpret. So I’ll follow your lead.” He was in dead earnest.
He’d hit the ball into her court. Lob it back. Kiss him. Then what? Go to bed with a stranger?
A sizzling noise distracted Sonya. “The potatoes!”
Barry grabbed a spatula and flipped them. The bottoms had gone dark brown. “Another minute and I’d have let you down.”
“Let me down?” Sonya activated the burner under her pan.
“I promised to help with the meal,” he clarified.
“We could always pick the unburnt parts off the top.”
He grinned. “There’s a girl after my own heart.”
For reasons that didn’t bear examining, she hoped so.
She tended her pans in silence, keenly aware of the narrow