Page 83 of The Guest Cottage
They were things he hadn’t even realized were missing from his life.
Marlow glanced up, her soft brown eyes smiling at him. “Hi. Just in time. Dinner is almost ready.”
He noticed the table was set for three and that Andy was on a blanket in the family room, where both women could see him contentedly gumming a new soft toy.
Cort went to the stove, where Marlow poked the potatoes with a fork. Her light brown hair, now with natural highlights from the sun, was in a thick braid hanging over her shoulder. The back of her neck was enticingly bared, so he pressed a kiss there. “Smells great.” The food—and her.
She tipped her head to give him better access. “I hope it tastes good, too.”
He took a soft, quick love bite near her shoulder and hummed. “Definitely does.”
Pixie turned away from them, but not before Cort saw her grin.
It was overly familiar of him, but why not? This all felt like a very familiar moment, so he stepped up to Pixie next and put a peck on her temple. “Hey, Pixie.”
Her face went bright pink, but she smiled hugely. “Hey, back.”
He started to ask what he should do to help, but then Andy started to fuss. “Could I hold him while you finish up?”
Pixie’s brows lifted. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.” He quickly washed his hands, then gathered up the baby, blanket and all, and took a seat at the kitchen table. “It gives me an excuse to sit while you two work.”
Marlow sent him the warmest smile he’d ever gotten from her. “You’ve already worked today, and you still plan to put up lights. Dinner is the least we could do.”
“Everything is about done anyway,” Pixie said.
“I’ll mash the potatoes, then we can eat.”
He loved how she and Pixie meshed, the protectiveness Marlow couldn’t hide, and the hero worship Pixie displayed. “Mashed potatoes. I haven’t had those since my mom last made them.”
“No fair,” Marlow said. “I can’t compare to a mother’s home cooking.”
Pixie said, “Ha! Pretty sure you can do anything.” Then she caught herself and sent Cort a horrified glance of apology. “Not that your mother’s cooking wouldn’t have been—”
“She was a good cook,” Cort interrupted, to spare her. “But I agree. Pressure is on, Marlow. Pixie and I both expect excellence.”
“I’ll do my best,” she quipped back, not at all bothered.
Of course, she wouldn’t be. Overall, Marlow proved immune to pressure. Immune to stress and change. She amazed him. Bowled him over, even, and after his time serving in the Marines with some phenomenal men, that was no easy feat. “Soon as we finish, I’ll have to get to work on the lights.” He wanted Marlow safe, and he wanted Pixie to feel secure.
“Isn’t he the best?” Marlow asked as she added butter and milk to the potatoes.
And Pixie replied, “For sure.” Then more quietly, “But I hate being such a bother.”
Together, they replied, “You aren’t.” Then they even grinned in sync.
Dinner, of course, was incredible, and they told her so. Marlow accepted their praise graciously, but then, a woman like her was surely used to accolades.
It was the little compliments he and Herman gave her, truths all of them, that she seemed to enjoy the most.
It still surprised Cort that she could be so content in Bramble. Every day, he expected her to announce that she’d be leaving, either heading back to her city life or accepting a great job offer.
Instead, each day she became more entrenched in the town. She won people over with little effort—himself included. Herman couldn’t say enough good things about her. The siblings admired everything about her, especially the way she’d befriended Pixie and Andy.
He was in awe of that, too.
As a woman of means, she could have simply presented Pixie with a check and sent her on her way. Doing so would have been beyond generous. Instead, she’d gotten personally involved. She’d given Pixie a greater gift than money.
