Page 18 of Love & Rockets

“I heard you,” Darla called from the kitchen. “I’ve kept you alive for over thirteen years, kid. Wanna cap it there?”

She came out of the kitchen, oven mitts covering both hands and her cheeks the pink of the tea roses in his mama’s flower beds. Again, Jake was struck by the pearly translucence of her skin. The flush colored her ears, traveled down her throat, and spread across her chest. He wanted to follow its path. Discover whether her nipples were the same rosy pink. Note how they looked when they furled up tight. See for himself exactly how they’d glisten when wet from his mouth.

“Jake?”

The single syllable sledge-hammered through his little trip down fantasy lane, but not didn’t keep him from zeroing in on unexplored territory. By the time he jerked his gaze from her breasts to her face, Darla’d fixed him with a pointed stare that told him she knew exactly what he was doing. He opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again. Any excuse he might make would be a lie and only make things more awkward. So he said the only thing he could say to cover his multitude of sins. “I’m sorry. Excuse me?”

“I was asking if you are a salad guy.”

He frowned, wondering if this was one of those traps. If he said no, he’d look unevolved, but a simple yes could turn him into a pansy. He chose his words as carefully as a man faced with torture by leaf lettuce might. “I eat salad.”

Truth. Except when someone put a plate of broadleaf weeds and dandelion stems in front of him.

“It’s salad out of a bag,” Grace said in a stage whisper.

Darla shot her kid an exasperated look. “You know, soon you and I are going to have to have a little talk about feminist solidarity.”

Grace blinked those big doe eyes. “I’ve totally got your back, Mom.”

“Too bad I can’t reach the knife you planted there.”

Jake laughed, amused by the back and forth between them. Sinking back into the squishy couch cushions, he crossed his arms over his chest and settled in for the show.

Darla squared her shoulders and turned to face him, gloved hands on her hips. “Dr. Dalton, would you care for some bagged salad with no extra vegetables, but your choice of either bottled ranch or bottled Italian dressing?”

“Yes, thank you. Sounds great,” he replied, matching her stiff tone, but unable to suppress his smile.

“Tell me, are you more the bottled ranch or the bottled Italian fan?” Grace probed.

There seemed to be few wrong answers in this household. As he caught onto the rhythm of their banter, his nervousness ebbed. “Well, I will eat either one because I pretty much eat everything I get my hands on, but seeing as how this restaurant is so fancy as to offer a guy a choice, I have to go with the ranch.”

Grace gave a grave but approving nod. “We believe most everything is better with enough ranch dressing.”

Jake smiled. “I think there’s research to back your theory up.”

The girl blinked, then cocked her head. “Really?”

“I conducted the study myself.”

A timer rang out and Darla disappeared into the kitchen as Grace laughed at his lame attempt at humor. Out of habit, he rolled his neck forward, and to his surprise, the joints didn’t pop for once. Though his muscles ached from the work he’d done installing the flooring, he was somehow more relaxed than he’d been all day.

Sharing a conspiratorial smile with Grace felt natural. He liked these sassy, funny women with their quick wit and utter lack of artifice. They made him feel at home.

The urge to leap to Darla’s defense seemed to be becoming an imperative. He sat up straight and ran his hands down the front of his khakis. “Maybe I should see if your mom needs a hand.”

Grace sputtered a protest, but he paid her no heed. He needed to move. Work. Do something other than sink into that cloud of a couch and float away to never-never-gonna-happen land.

Rounding the corner, he found Darla standing on tiptoe, straining to pour a large pot of cooked noodles into a colander in the stainless steel sink. She was barefoot. He hadn’t noticed when she answered the door. He was too busy babbling at her about wine and wondering where the lines in the sand would be drawn concerning his interaction with Grace. Steam billowed into the air and she gave a soft hiss as she turned her face away from the scalding vapor.

He stood there like a dolt. A white knight two seconds too late to be of any use, and too damn fixed on the fair maiden’s freakin’ feet to make his move.

But her soles looked as pink and soft as the rest of her. When she eased down, he saw her toenails were polished a shade of metallic blue that instantly made him think of mermaids. Giving his head a shake to dislodge the fanciful thought, he hovered in the doorway of the galley-style kitchen.

“Sorry, I was coming to help.”

Darla glanced over her shoulder as she set the pot on one of the unlit burners to get it out of her way. “What? Oh, I’ve got this. I haul commercial-sized tubs of slaw and stuff around all the time.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Strong. Remind me not to tangle with you.”

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