Surely Angela hadn’t come back to rub more salt in her wounds. That would be just her luck.
Jake Hammond stood on her top step looking debonair and perfectly at home, holding a silver serving tray and a whisk. Jake was probably the only man in the world who could make kitchen utensils look inordinately masculine in his hands. A small shiver went up her spine. Excitement? No, she told herself, she was simply chilly.
“What are you doing…?” Then she remembered her manners. “How nice to see you, Mr. Hammond. Can I help you?”
“I found these things in my kitchen. I tried to drop them off at Dining with Divas, but the shop was closed. I hope you don’tmind that I brought them here. I thought perhaps you’d need them soon.” Her mind locked at the idea of him going to such effort when a telephone call would have sufficed.
“W-would you like to come in?” Marlo stammered finally, overtaken by a host of conflicting emotions. The man was holding a whisk, she reminded herself, not a bouquet of roses. Handsome, great smile, good manners, thoughtful… Items on the List swirled in her brain.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He sauntered into her house and it suddenly felt crowded, as if he’d taken all the space and air it had to offer. Jake’s obvious athleticism was apparent beneath khaki trousers, and a caramel-colored polo shirt did something rather spellbinding to his eyes. “It smells awfully good in here.”
His gaze traveled around the room, a place that could only be described as a foodie’s residence. There were poster-size prints of loaves of bread and decadent desserts like tiramisu, flan and strawberries with whipped cream. Placards that proclaimed dozens of ways to cook with chocolate hung in her living room like most people displayed family portraits. The elegant but genteelly worn furniture were beloved castoffs. It was as cozy, charming and idiosyncratic as he’d expected.
“I’m making bread and cookies. Would you like some?” she asked politely, as if it was the least she could do. The timer sounded on her stove. “There are the cookies now.”
“Absolutely.” The invitation delighted him. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had homemade bread?”
“It was on Saturday actually. With the bruschetta we served.”
“Homemade in an actual home, then. When I was a little boy, my grandmother baked a lot. Now she and my grandfather travel most of the time, doing touch-and-goes out of the ranch. My mother thinks too much time in the kitchen is beneath her.” Hemissed the homey, domestic woman she’d once been. Now she was a world-hopping, Nordic-walking vegetarian. For a man who liked comfortable, homely things, it had been a big adjustment. Being good in the kitchen was an upward status symbol in his mind. The triumph of the stables was wonderful, but he often wondered if his parents lost themselves somewhere in that success.
He moved through the house, stopping to study the contemporary-looking line drawings framed over her fireplace, charmed by the quirky, eclectic mix. “These are unusual.”
“My nephew drew those when he was three. Unfortunately, Brady’s attention span is brief. Five minutes at something is an eon to my nephew.”
Jake noted that she sounded wistful, especially when she added, “I always want to see potential in those childish sketches, because Brady has a lot of challenges to overcome. I have dozens of uncompleted drawings, so I decided to frame a few. You’d be surprised how many people comment on my taste in modern art.”
“And savvy, too.” He didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Usually, you have to pay big money for things that look like this.” The smile that spread across her face brought her back from some dark thoughts he didn’t understand. She was beautiful when she smiled.
He paused at the bookcase which divided the living room from the dining area. On the living-room side were books that revealed Marlo’s eclectic
Jake Hammond stood on her top step looking debonair and perfectly at home, holding a silver serving tray and a whisk. Jake was probably the only man in the world who could make kitchen utensils look inordinately masculine in his hands. A small shiver went up her spine. Excitement? No, she told herself, she was simply chilly.
“What are you doing…?” Then she remembered her manners. “How nice to see you, Mr. Hammond. Can I help you?”
“I found these things in my kitchen. I tried to drop them off at Dining with Divas, but the shop was closed. I hope you don’tmind that I brought them here. I thought perhaps you’d need them soon.” Her mind locked at the idea of him going to such effort when a telephone call would have sufficed.
“W-would you like to come in?” Marlo stammered finally, overtaken by a host of conflicting emotions. The man was holding a whisk, she reminded herself, not a bouquet of roses. Handsome, great smile, good manners, thoughtful… Items on the List swirled in her brain.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He sauntered into her house and it suddenly felt crowded, as if he’d taken all the space and air it had to offer. Jake’s obvious athleticism was apparent beneath khaki trousers, and a caramel-colored polo shirt did something rather spellbinding to his eyes. “It smells awfully good in here.”
His gaze traveled around the room, a place that could only be described as a foodie’s residence. There were poster-size prints of loaves of bread and decadent desserts like tiramisu, flan and strawberries with whipped cream. Placards that proclaimed dozens of ways to cook with chocolate hung in her living room like most people displayed family portraits. The elegant but genteelly worn furniture were beloved castoffs. It was as cozy, charming and idiosyncratic as he’d expected.
“I’m making bread and cookies. Would you like some?” she asked politely, as if it was the least she could do. The timer sounded on her stove. “There are the cookies now.”
“Absolutely.” The invitation delighted him. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had homemade bread?”
“It was on Saturday actually. With the bruschetta we served.”
“Homemade in an actual home, then. When I was a little boy, my grandmother baked a lot. Now she and my grandfather travel most of the time, doing touch-and-goes out of the ranch. My mother thinks too much time in the kitchen is beneath her.” Hemissed the homey, domestic woman she’d once been. Now she was a world-hopping, Nordic-walking vegetarian. For a man who liked comfortable, homely things, it had been a big adjustment. Being good in the kitchen was an upward status symbol in his mind. The triumph of the stables was wonderful, but he often wondered if his parents lost themselves somewhere in that success.
He moved through the house, stopping to study the contemporary-looking line drawings framed over her fireplace, charmed by the quirky, eclectic mix. “These are unusual.”
“My nephew drew those when he was three. Unfortunately, Brady’s attention span is brief. Five minutes at something is an eon to my nephew.”
Jake noted that she sounded wistful, especially when she added, “I always want to see potential in those childish sketches, because Brady has a lot of challenges to overcome. I have dozens of uncompleted drawings, so I decided to frame a few. You’d be surprised how many people comment on my taste in modern art.”
“And savvy, too.” He didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Usually, you have to pay big money for things that look like this.” The smile that spread across her face brought her back from some dark thoughts he didn’t understand. She was beautiful when she smiled.
He paused at the bookcase which divided the living room from the dining area. On the living-room side were books that revealed Marlo’s eclectic
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