Page 16 of Smoke Show

Chapter 7

Eve

Tellingmyselfitwascuriosity that drove me to accept Brady's invitation, not attraction, and believing it were two very different propositions. Evelyn would have been led like a lamb from his kitchen to his bedroom, no questions asked. Was it a bad sign that I wanted to embrace that easy-going innocence again, and just see where things led with Brady?

So much for avoiding men.

Shaking my head, I tried not to think about potential consequences. At least with Brady, I knew he was single. I might risk my heart, but I wouldn't be risking my home.

He'd stirred my nosy side with talk of Sylvia Nemitz's betting ring. There couldn't really be a secret cabal meddling in Campfire couples' relationships, could there? Surely, he was just teasing me?

Brady pulled up in front of his house, a small, 1960's rambler with brickwork planters. As befit someone who was friends with Gwen, his planter boxes were filled with ornamental cabbages in hues of purple and white. A skiff of snow obscured his lawn, but given Brady's attention to detail, I was guessing that under the layer of white, it was cut and manicured to perfection. The warm glow of the porch light beckoned, and he unlocked the door, offering to take my coat. I handed it over, and he tucked it in the front closet with his own, while I stood, mouth agape, taking in his home.

I'd expected pristine floors and an antiseptic feel. Instead, his space was comfortable. And dare I note, messy? A forgotten water bottle sat next to an empty mug on the coffee table. I spotted at least one pair of socks tucked beneath the couch. A stack of books had toppled over, spilling under the side table. Immediately, I felt more at ease.

"Sorry about the clutter," Brady muttered, leaning down to pet the cat that wound around his ankles, meowing insistently.

"Who's this?" I asked, enchanted by the affectionate way Brady stroked his pet.

"Trouble."

I leaned down, presenting my fingers for a sniff. Trouble deigned to nudge at my hand, and I smoothed a palm along his silky coat, pleased when he purred his approval.

Brady stood, one strong hand propped on his hip, his other hand running through his usually perfect hair, until it stuck up over his left ear.

I resisted the impulse to smooth the strands back in place. Something about seeing Brady in his private space shook me. He seemed more human. And darned if that didn't make him even more attractive.

"Come on back to the kitchen. I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere; you want a glass?"

Brady was cute when he was nervous. Which begged the question why he'd asked me to dinner, if it was so clearly unplanned? I hadn't thought Brady had an impulsive bone in his body.

"Anything is fine," I assured, following his broad back to the kitchen. "I'm happy with water."

The kitchen was dated, the linoleum floors in a soft beige and oak cabinets hailing from an earlier decade.

"Have you lived here long?" I asked, curious about the differences in decor. The living room had fresh wood flooring and a more modern feel.

"About two years. I'm slowly updating the place. Each summer I pick a room to work on."

Brady pulled the lid off of the Crockpot bubbling on the counter, and I nearly whimpered at the aroma of onions and celery that wafted my way.

"That smells amazing. Thanks for inviting me for dinner." I bit my lip, debating. "I’ll admit, it’s also a little unexpected," I said, watching him carefully for a clue as to why he'd taken the leap.

True, we'd been bickering for weeks, but with all of hisMs. Pendleton's, I'd thought he was serious about keeping his distance. Yet here he was, inviting me to eat after practice for the second time. Welcoming me into his home. His sanctuary. Whether he intended it to or not, he was giving away a huge chunk of himself with the invitation. Seeing his home, with its messy bits and imperfections made me feel closer to him. Like he was letting me see underneath his professional mask. It seemed unlikely that Brady was lonely, but something about his pause after my probing made me think I'd hit on the real reason for his invitation.

Brady appeared to live a full life: high school principal by day, beloved son of Campfire the rest of the time. We'd run into him with Ivan, Zander, and Cole at Sing-along, a local bar, on our last girls' night out. He didn't seem to lack for friends in town, and if he dropped his self-professed rules about dating local, he'd have more company than he could handle. Brady Gleason was hot. No two ways about it. Medium-tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven, he was always suited up with his dark hair slicked back. He looked almosttooprofessional for our sleepy little town, but that wouldn’t stop a woman from inviting him into her bed.

Brady shrugged, avoiding my gaze as he stirred the stew.

"Brady?" I prompted.

"You and I started off on the wrong foot," he said, meeting my gaze. "I thought if we got to know each other better, we could start over."

"What's a little blackmail between friends, huh?" I asked.

He wrinkled his nose. "It's not blackmail if I don't have any dirt on you. I don't know you well enough to blackmail you. That's my whole point."

"Extortion then," I allowed.

---