8
Alexei followed the sexiest woman who’d ever worn a pair of jeans into a cottage that looked like something out of a fairy tale. It was furnished more for comfort than style but he liked the overstuffed chintz couches, and the solid old wood pieces that someone, presumably Marguerite herself, had cleaned up. He very much liked the feeling that she was a person who walked the walk. Her personal values were everywhere from the composting bin in the kitchen, to furniture that was clearly recycled. A bookcase held books on yoga, gardening, meditation, herbal remedies and a handful of novels. A black and white cat glared at them from the depths of the couch, green eyes narrowed into slits. “What’s the cat’s name?”
“Ophelia.”
“Ophelia?” He had a feeling there was a story here. “Like in Shakespeare?”
“Exactly like that. She was just a kitten when I found her half drowned in the river.”
“I’m guessing she wasn’t attempting suicide?” he said, sitting on the couch beside the cat.
“My guess is that someone didn’t want a kitten anymore.”
“Why not just take her to a shelter?”
“Exactly.”
He put his hand slowly towards the cat and Marguerite warned him, “She’s not always the friendliest.”
He didn’t stop what he was doing, and as his knuckles gently touched the top of the cat’s head, Ophelia leaned towards him. “Cats like me.”
“Of course she does, she’s female.”
He imagined Marguerite had intended to mumble that under her breath so he pretended he didn’t hear her. Instead, he kept his attention on petting and soothing Ophelia, who was completely open about her affection, purring and bumping at his fist. Unlike her human who was not big on showing her emotion.
Sometimes when their gazes met he felt a connection as deep and rich as anything he’d ever imagined, but she always backed away when things got interesting. Was it because of that blond guy he’d seen her kissing? He didn’t seem her type. But then, how did he know what her type was?
And where had the crazy idea come from to co-author the book with her? He’d been approached by a local publisher about writing a cookbook and he’d been thinking about the project, but not very seriously. And then suddenly when he’d held her calloused hand in his and felt that incredible connection between them he’d grasped at straws. He felt that if he could entice her more deeply into his life, spend more time with her, that she’d maybe return his feelings. But then, as he began to describe the project off the top of his head, he realized that it was actually a good idea.
Who really needed another Greek cookbook? But a cookbook that combined some of the old recipes that his mother had brought with her from the homeland, as well as his own innovations, and tied them into a more local way of cooking and eating, seemed like it took the project to more interesting places.
Simply having a food truck guy author a cookbook was kind of hip and innovative, adding a local produce grower seemed like it added a layer of quirkiness he liked. Of course, he was going to have to convince the publisher that it was a great idea, but he had a feeling that he could make it work.
While he was making nice with Ophelia, Marguerite bustled around in the small kitchen. She said, “Would you like a cold beer?”
“It’s like you read my mind?”
He heard the fridge open. She brought in two bottles. Local craft brews.
He clicked his bottle neck against hers and then drank. After working all day in the hot food truck, the beer went down well.
She sipped her own and stretched out her feet in front of her. “That was nice that you came. I think the food trucks added a big draw. I bet we doubled the money we brought in last year.”
“Glad I could be part of it,” he said. She leaned her head back against the couch and he wrapped his hand around the cold bottle, fighting the urge to push his fingers into her curls and pull her against him.
She turned her head and for a second he thought she’d read his mind. She leaned forward the tiniest bit and her lips softened. They were wet from the beer. She blinked and said, “Mind if I have a quick shower and get cleaned up?”
He gripped the cool glass tighter. “No. Not at all.”
“You can shower after me, if you want.”
“That would be great.” He had been working all day, behind a hot stove serving many more customers than he had imagined would turn up at a country fair, and he felt like a shower would improve his general level of cleanliness immensely. He always kept a clean shirt in the food truck, so he’d at least be presentable for dinner.
Marguerite nodded and then headed down the hallway to where, presumably, both her bedroom and bathroom were located. In a few moments he heard the unmistakable sound of a shower running. He had a momentary, visceral image of a female form gauzy with steam. He blinked and pulled out his smartphone, forcing himself to concentrate on his emails, most of which seemed incredibly boring. There was one, however, from the publisher who was interested in the cookbook. He decided to throw out his strange new idea and see what happened, so he spent a few moments briefly laying out his idea before emailing back.
He was checking the day’s news on an app when Marguerite said from behind him, “Bathroom’s all yours.”
He rose from the couch, eliciting a burp of annoyance from the cat snuggled beside him, and turned. Marguerite wore a long bathrobe. It was cream colored with big roses all over it. Her hair lay in long wet ringlets, her face was delicately flushed from the shower and her feet were bare. Lust curled in his belly, he couldn’t stop it.
