about the water right now. Go watch the game with Grandpa and give him a live person to argue with instead of the announcers who can’t hear him ,” she raised her voice for the last part of the sentence.
“I can hear you!” he shouted back. “Got more eggs?”
“No more eggs. You get vegetables.” She nodded at Birdie to get the refills.
“You’re no fun, Randi. How did I raise such a dull daughter?”
“Like father like daughter,” she shot back.
“That’s not the way I remember it.” Court’s quiet comment sent a shiver down her spine.
The man may have been standing back to back with her, sliding hot packets of brie wrapped with prosciutto and phyllo dough onto a serving plate, but she could sense every inch of him along every inch of her back. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Hell. Today was going to be the longest of her life.
Chapter 4
Firmly forcing his mind back to where it’d been before Randi’s dad had arrived, Court transferred the baked bundles wrapped to look like mini presents onto a plate. Drew traipsed into the kitchen on Birdie’s heels. Court stopped him and handed over the plate. Happy as usual, Drew took it, followed Birdie, and plopped down on the sofa next to her. For a moment, Court wanted to leap between them. They looked wrong together somehow, or was it too right? Like peas in a pod, they had the same coloring and apparently similar temperaments. Both unnaturally cheerful. A trait attributed to him, once upon a time. Right up until that spring so long ago.
Damn, he’d lost the thought. He needed to go through it from the beginning. Court ran a hand through his hair as if the stimulation could dredge up the memories.
Jean—Randi had applied for the summer internship because she loved London. She’d told him she needed to stay as long as possible to soak up all the real Earl Grey and crumpets she could. He’d gained a new appreciation for the everyday items by hanging with her. Hanging. Just one Americanism he’d picked up from her. So many cultural exchanges they’d made. The very thought brought a smile to his face. International Relations had been his favorite subject that spring. Too bad it wasn’t eligible for addition to his transcripts.
And yet, she’d given up the opportunity because of one snippet of conversation she’d overheard. Okay, one incredibly damning snippet. Because she thought he’d thrown her, and what they’d had together, away. Because she thought he’d been toying with her, as if he were a modern day Lothario, with women falling at his feet, giving him a choice of lovers each night. Something he’d never been accused of. He’d been faithful to Beatrice until her death, and afterward, his affairs had been discreet with carefully selected companions.
He turned to watch her wash her hands, back stiff, movements jerky. Only once during their time together had he seen body language like this. Definitely upset. That time, so long ago, had been after a phone call from home. She’d once admitted discussions with her father could be difficult, but they seemed to get along fine now. What had changed?
Too many years had passed, or had they? A few minutes alone, that’s all he needed. Time was precious and their audience too large. He needed to talk with her and there seemed to be a lull in the action.
“Pardon me,” he muttered near her ear. “Where might I find the loo?”
Without softening a bit, she snapped out, “Off the foyer. There are two doors, one leads to the mudroom, the other is the powder room.”
“Could you show me?” Possibly he could sidetrack her, get her to tell him about the photos lining the wall. “I wouldn’t want to take a wrong turn and, say, end up in your bedroom.”
The look she shot him embodied pure exasperation. He loved that look on her face. It meant he’d begun to get under her skin despite all her attempts to remain aloof. Not that she’d ever been able to cultivate aloofness.
“I can hear you!” he shouted back. “Got more eggs?”
“No more eggs. You get vegetables.” She nodded at Birdie to get the refills.
“You’re no fun, Randi. How did I raise such a dull daughter?”
“Like father like daughter,” she shot back.
“That’s not the way I remember it.” Court’s quiet comment sent a shiver down her spine.
The man may have been standing back to back with her, sliding hot packets of brie wrapped with prosciutto and phyllo dough onto a serving plate, but she could sense every inch of him along every inch of her back. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Hell. Today was going to be the longest of her life.
Chapter 4
Firmly forcing his mind back to where it’d been before Randi’s dad had arrived, Court transferred the baked bundles wrapped to look like mini presents onto a plate. Drew traipsed into the kitchen on Birdie’s heels. Court stopped him and handed over the plate. Happy as usual, Drew took it, followed Birdie, and plopped down on the sofa next to her. For a moment, Court wanted to leap between them. They looked wrong together somehow, or was it too right? Like peas in a pod, they had the same coloring and apparently similar temperaments. Both unnaturally cheerful. A trait attributed to him, once upon a time. Right up until that spring so long ago.
Damn, he’d lost the thought. He needed to go through it from the beginning. Court ran a hand through his hair as if the stimulation could dredge up the memories.
Jean—Randi had applied for the summer internship because she loved London. She’d told him she needed to stay as long as possible to soak up all the real Earl Grey and crumpets she could. He’d gained a new appreciation for the everyday items by hanging with her. Hanging. Just one Americanism he’d picked up from her. So many cultural exchanges they’d made. The very thought brought a smile to his face. International Relations had been his favorite subject that spring. Too bad it wasn’t eligible for addition to his transcripts.
And yet, she’d given up the opportunity because of one snippet of conversation she’d overheard. Okay, one incredibly damning snippet. Because she thought he’d thrown her, and what they’d had together, away. Because she thought he’d been toying with her, as if he were a modern day Lothario, with women falling at his feet, giving him a choice of lovers each night. Something he’d never been accused of. He’d been faithful to Beatrice until her death, and afterward, his affairs had been discreet with carefully selected companions.
He turned to watch her wash her hands, back stiff, movements jerky. Only once during their time together had he seen body language like this. Definitely upset. That time, so long ago, had been after a phone call from home. She’d once admitted discussions with her father could be difficult, but they seemed to get along fine now. What had changed?
Too many years had passed, or had they? A few minutes alone, that’s all he needed. Time was precious and their audience too large. He needed to talk with her and there seemed to be a lull in the action.
“Pardon me,” he muttered near her ear. “Where might I find the loo?”
Without softening a bit, she snapped out, “Off the foyer. There are two doors, one leads to the mudroom, the other is the powder room.”
“Could you show me?” Possibly he could sidetrack her, get her to tell him about the photos lining the wall. “I wouldn’t want to take a wrong turn and, say, end up in your bedroom.”
The look she shot him embodied pure exasperation. He loved that look on her face. It meant he’d begun to get under her skin despite all her attempts to remain aloof. Not that she’d ever been able to cultivate aloofness.
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