Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #2) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,27

to prepare for you, so let me know if you need anything.” I imagine actual bunny-size dust bunnies in her room as I haven’t bothered to clean in there since I moved here.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she replies. “I’m here to take care of you.” She walks into her room and over to the bay window framed in a filmy, white, dotted-swiss curtain.

Crap, I didn’t buy any groceries this week. “I think we’re going to need to order in tonight. I usually eat frozen meals and I don’t have anything else.”

My mom grimaces. “Yuck. Why don’t we go out? My treat.”

“I don’t think they’ll let us take Penny into a restaurant.”

“Do you have a decent Chinese place that delivers?” she asks.

As much as I love living here, there have been a few disappointments, and so far good Chinese food is one of them. “We have a great noodle house that delivers, or we could get a pizza. Which do you prefer?”

Before she can answer, the doorbell rings. I hurry down the hall to answer it, scooping up the puppy on my way. The first thing I see is a large pizza box. The second thing is James. “I brought dinner to thank you for taking care of Penny this afternoon.” I step back to indicate that he should come in.

Penny is trying to wiggle out of my arms, so I put her down. She immediately attempts to jump into James’s arms which is downright funny because she’s so small. “You know what they say about dogs, don’t you?” James pointedly asks.

“Birds of a feather stick together?” I deadpan.

“Nice. I was thinking more along the lines of them having good taste in people.”

My mom joins us before I can come up with a snappy response. She greets James appreciatively, “Helloooooo.”

His gaze darts between the two of us before saying, “You must be Tara’s mom.”

“And you must be?” My mom lets her question dangle in the air like James is a deep dark secret I’ve been keeping from her.

“James Cavanaugh,” he answers while reaching out his free hand to her.

My mom sends me a pointed look. “He’s the friend you were talking about?” I can tell she has questions. Please don’t let her ask them until after James leaves.

“You were talking about me?” James interrupts. “How nice. Only good stuff I’m sure.”

I ignore him. “Mom, James is my boss’s son. We’re working together on a garden plan for the lodge.”

She looks disappointed. “So, you’re not …”

“We’re work friends,” I confirm before she can embarrass me by insinuating something else is going on. Friends is a strong word for what we are, but I can hardly tell my mom that ninety percent of the time James and I can’t stand each other. Not in front of him anyway.

“Your lovely daughter frequently graced my farm stand with her presence this past summer. I didn’t know she was the pastry chef at the lodge until recently,” James interjects.

“You’re the pig-headed farmer?” my mom squeals. OMG. I can feel the heat of embarrassment start to creep up my neck.

“At your service.” James bows at the waist like he’s addressing his court after being coronated. Then he kicks off his shoes and carries the pizza into the kitchen. “Do you mind if I stay for dinner? I’m temporarily homeless.”

“I thought you had a leak in your bathroom. How does that make you homeless?” I sound like I’m accusing him of a crime. Not that lying about the state of home repairs should be a hanging offense, but there’s no sense being a drama queen about it either.

“My water is turned off for the time being so I’m going to stay at the lodge,” he explains.

“Can you keep a dog there? I’ve only ever seen support animals there. You know, like seeing-eye dogs.”

He grins playfully before answering, “I’m training Penny to be my emotional support pup. She’s going to protect me from overly opinionated women.”

“If you’re talking about me,” I stop to give Penny a big smooch on the top of her head, “you’re too late. She already loves me.”

James pulls plates out of my cabinet. “You’re not the only mean gal I have to deal with. Delia Kurtzman yells at me regularly when I don’t have enough green beans for her on the day she decides to can them, and Susan Frankle once told me my potatoes weren’t good enough for her latkes.”

“You poor man,” my mother consoles like she believes his sob story of female