The Promise of Change - By Rebecca Heflin Page 0,108
Thanksgiving, of which her mother would have been proud.
“How many people are you feeding tomorrow? It better be the whole neighborhood, considering the amount of food here.” He shook his head at her excesses.
It was true. She was making enough food to feed an army. “Overeating on Thanksgiving to the point that you can only lie on the couch and groan while you watch football is an American tradition dating back to the Pilgrims. Okay, well maybe not to the Pilgrims.” She wiped her watery eyes with the back of her hand. “I want you to get the full effect,” she said, then giggled at her pun.
Standing at the island, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, he chopped the onions and celery like an expert. Tilting her head, recalling his skills in the kitchen in his flat, she asked, “How is it the Earl of Rutherford knows his way around a kitchen so well?”
He chuckled, the knife slicing deftly through the celery. “You’ve seen the flat. Not exactly the kind of place for a bevy of servants. I needed to take care of my own nourishment. But it started when I was a little boy, visiting Rutherford’s kitchen where Mrs. Watson would bake cookies.”
He wiped his hands on the towel and braced his hands on the island. “Like Pavlov’s dog and the bell, I learned quickly that if I helped her with the baking, I got to lick the bowl.” He grinned.
“Before I knew it, she was teaching me other skills. By the time I figured it out, I realized I was enjoying myself.” Picking up the cutting board, he scraped the diced celery into a bowl. “It paid off.”
“You’re just full of surprises.” She turned to check on the pies. “I think I’m beginning to like surprises.”
She liked the feel of her home with him here. She’d always been content in her home, but with his presence, a different feeling settled over her, something more than contentment, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time: bliss; pure, unadulterated bliss. It permeated everything she did. Even the most mundane tasks were pleasant.
His previous meltdown was history, especially after the best make-up sex she’d ever had. They’d also ironed out the Adrian issue, whose wife was not cheating on him after all.
It had all been a terrible misunderstanding. The man he thought she was seeing was actually an exotic car dealer. Turns out she was buying him a lovely little Alpha Romeo for his birthday–with his money of course, since she’d promptly quit her job after marrying him.
That morning, Alex had helped Sarah water the garden and cut camellias for tomorrow’s table arrangements. Before they could complete the task, he’d pulled her beneath a secluded, vine-covered trellis, slipping his damp hands beneath her shirt at her waist, making her squeal when his cold hands brushed her warm skin.
The squeal quickly turned into a sigh once he started kissing her. This encounter led to a detour to the living room floor, the closest thing to privacy they could find in their haste. After all, they wouldn’t want to shock Mr. Waters, her elderly widower neighbor.
“Sarah. What are you thinking about?”
She could hear Alex scraping vegetables from the cutting board. She realized she had stopped scrubbing the pot she held over the sink.
Glad her back was to him so he couldn’t see her blush, she used the one niggling factor that invaded her bliss as an excuse for her distraction.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow . . . I mean, about meeting my family and friends?”
“Should I be?” he asked, as his eyebrows shot up. “After all, I’ve spoken to Ann and Becca on the phone, and you’ve told me so much about them, it’s not like we’re total strangers.”
“But you haven’t met Mark and Rob, and of course the Admiral. Since . . .”—she turned back to the sink—“well, they can be pretty protective of me.” They’d been spitting mad at Adrian when they’d found out about his affair.
Wiping his hands on the towel, he crossed the kitchen to stand behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, placing his chin on her shoulder. “Sarah, of course I want them to like me, but there’s not much I can do about it either way. It’s you I love, and it’s you I want to make happy.” He kissed her shoulder.
“You seem nervous enough for both of us anyway,” he chuckled, turning her around to face him. “What’s next, chef?”