Chesapeake Blue
Page 48
"Will you sell it to me?"
"You keep coming up here, I'm not going to need an agent." He crouched down beside her. "Why this one?"
"I want to walk there, through that mist. Watch it rise over the water while the sun comes up. It makes me feel…"
She trailed off as she tipped her face up to look at him.
He hadn't put on a shirt, and there were still a few stray beads of water gleaming on his chest. His jeans rode low, and he hadn't fastened the top button.
She imagined sliding her finger there, just over that line of denim. Just under it.
"Feel what?" he prompted.
Needy, she thought. Itchy. Brainless.
"Um." With some effort, she shifted to admire the painting again. "A little lonely, I suppose. But not in a sad way. Because it's beautiful there, and the path means you're only alone if you want to be." He leaned in, closer to the painting. She smelled the shower on him—soap and water—and her stomach muscles tightened even as those in her thighs went loose. "Where would you put it?" If this was desire, Dru realized, if this was lust, she'd never felt its like before.
"Ah, in my office at home. So when I'm tired of working on the books, I can look at it. And take a quiet walk."
She eased away from him, propped the painting up again. "So, can I buy it?"
"Probably." He straightened as she did, and their bodies brushed. From the glint in his eye she decided he was perfectly aware of her reaction to him. "Did you see your portrait?"
"Yes." It gave her an excuse to put a little distance between them when she walked to it. "It's lovely."
"But you don't want to buy it?"
"It's not for me. What will you call it?"
"Beauty Sleeps," he said, then frowned as the dream he'd forgotten came back to him. "Zucchini football," he muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Just a weird flash. Pizza," he said at the brisk knock on the door. He snatched his wallet off the workbench and, still shirtless and barefoot, went to the door. "Hey, Mike, how's it going?"
"Hanging loose."
The skinny, pimply-faced teenager handed Seth the pizza box. Then his gaze shifted, and he caught sight of Dru. The way his
Adam's apple bobbed, the way surprise, interest and envy sped over his young, bumpy face, warned Dru there would be fresh fruit on the grapevine, and it would have her and Seth clustered together.
"Um, hi. Um. Grandma sent you a bunch of napkins and stuff." He shoved the paper bag into Seth's hands as well.
"Great. Tell her thanks. Here you go, Mike. Keep the change."
"Yeah. Well. Um. See you."
"Looks like Mike's got a little crush on you," Seth commented as he booted the door closed.
"I'd say Mike's double-timing it back to Village Pizza so he can spread the word that the artist and the florist are having hot pizza and hot sex."
"I hope he's right. If we're going to make the first part come true, we'd better dig into this." He dropped the box on the bed. "You need a plate?"
Her heart had given a little lurch, but she nodded. "Yes, I need a plate."
"Now, now, don't get twitchy. I'll get you a glass of very nice Chianti instead of the beer."
"I can drink the beer."
"You could," he commented as he headed into the kitchen again. "But you'd rather have the wine. I'll drink the beer. And, sugar, if you don't like people talking about you, you shouldn't live in a tight-knit little community."
"I don't mind people talking about me so much." Not the way they did here, she thought, that was different, so much less bitchy than the way they gossiped in Washington. "I just don't care for them talking about me doing something before I have a chance to do it."
"Would that be the pizza or the sex?" he asked as he came back with paper plates.
"I haven't decided." She pushed through the clothes in his packing box until she found a denim work shirt. "Put this on."
"Yes 'm. Can you handle sitting on the bed to eat if I promise not to jump you?" She sat and, using one of the white plastic forks Mike's grandmother had put into the bag, worked a slice free. She plopped it on her plate, then using the same method, lifted a piece of his half. "You know, we've been dating for a while now—"
"We are not dating. This is not a date. This is a pizza."
"Right. Anyway." He sat down, cross-legged, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned. It was worse, she realized than no shirt at all. "We haven't asked some of the essential questions to make sure this relationship has a chance."
"Such as?"
"Vacation weekend. The mountains or the shore?"
"Mountains. We live at the shore."
"Agreed." He bit into the pizza. "Favorite guitar player. Eric Clapton or Chet Atkins?"
"Chet who?"
He actually went pale. "Oh God." With a wince, he rubbed his heart. "Let's skip that one. It's too painful. Scariest movie ever—classic category, Psycho or Jaws?" "Neither. The Exorcist."
"Good one. Who would you trust, with your life, against the forces of evil? Superman or Batman?"
"Buffy—the vampire slayer."
"Get out." He swigged beer. "Superman. It has to be Superman."
"One whiff of kryptonite and he's down for the count. Besides"—she polished off her slice and went for another—"Buffy has a much more interesting wardrobe."
He shook his head in disgust. "Let's move on. Shower or bath?"
"It would depend on—"
"No, no, no." He snagged more pizza. "No depends. Pick."
"Bath." She licked sauce off her finger. "Long, hot and full of bubbles."
"Just as I suspected. Dog or cat."
"Cat."
He set the slice down. "That is just so wrong."
"I work all day. Cats are self-reliant, and they don't chew your shoes." He shook his head in deep regret. "This might be the end of things between us. Can this relationship be saved? Quick. French fries or caviar?"
"Really, that's ridiculous. French fries, of course."
"You keep coming up here, I'm not going to need an agent." He crouched down beside her. "Why this one?"
"I want to walk there, through that mist. Watch it rise over the water while the sun comes up. It makes me feel…"
She trailed off as she tipped her face up to look at him.
He hadn't put on a shirt, and there were still a few stray beads of water gleaming on his chest. His jeans rode low, and he hadn't fastened the top button.
She imagined sliding her finger there, just over that line of denim. Just under it.
"Feel what?" he prompted.
Needy, she thought. Itchy. Brainless.
"Um." With some effort, she shifted to admire the painting again. "A little lonely, I suppose. But not in a sad way. Because it's beautiful there, and the path means you're only alone if you want to be." He leaned in, closer to the painting. She smelled the shower on him—soap and water—and her stomach muscles tightened even as those in her thighs went loose. "Where would you put it?" If this was desire, Dru realized, if this was lust, she'd never felt its like before.
"Ah, in my office at home. So when I'm tired of working on the books, I can look at it. And take a quiet walk."
She eased away from him, propped the painting up again. "So, can I buy it?"
"Probably." He straightened as she did, and their bodies brushed. From the glint in his eye she decided he was perfectly aware of her reaction to him. "Did you see your portrait?"
"Yes." It gave her an excuse to put a little distance between them when she walked to it. "It's lovely."
"But you don't want to buy it?"
"It's not for me. What will you call it?"
"Beauty Sleeps," he said, then frowned as the dream he'd forgotten came back to him. "Zucchini football," he muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Just a weird flash. Pizza," he said at the brisk knock on the door. He snatched his wallet off the workbench and, still shirtless and barefoot, went to the door. "Hey, Mike, how's it going?"
"Hanging loose."
The skinny, pimply-faced teenager handed Seth the pizza box. Then his gaze shifted, and he caught sight of Dru. The way his
Adam's apple bobbed, the way surprise, interest and envy sped over his young, bumpy face, warned Dru there would be fresh fruit on the grapevine, and it would have her and Seth clustered together.
"Um, hi. Um. Grandma sent you a bunch of napkins and stuff." He shoved the paper bag into Seth's hands as well.
"Great. Tell her thanks. Here you go, Mike. Keep the change."
"Yeah. Well. Um. See you."
"Looks like Mike's got a little crush on you," Seth commented as he booted the door closed.
"I'd say Mike's double-timing it back to Village Pizza so he can spread the word that the artist and the florist are having hot pizza and hot sex."
"I hope he's right. If we're going to make the first part come true, we'd better dig into this." He dropped the box on the bed. "You need a plate?"
Her heart had given a little lurch, but she nodded. "Yes, I need a plate."
"Now, now, don't get twitchy. I'll get you a glass of very nice Chianti instead of the beer."
"I can drink the beer."
"You could," he commented as he headed into the kitchen again. "But you'd rather have the wine. I'll drink the beer. And, sugar, if you don't like people talking about you, you shouldn't live in a tight-knit little community."
"I don't mind people talking about me so much." Not the way they did here, she thought, that was different, so much less bitchy than the way they gossiped in Washington. "I just don't care for them talking about me doing something before I have a chance to do it."
"Would that be the pizza or the sex?" he asked as he came back with paper plates.
"I haven't decided." She pushed through the clothes in his packing box until she found a denim work shirt. "Put this on."
"Yes 'm. Can you handle sitting on the bed to eat if I promise not to jump you?" She sat and, using one of the white plastic forks Mike's grandmother had put into the bag, worked a slice free. She plopped it on her plate, then using the same method, lifted a piece of his half. "You know, we've been dating for a while now—"
"We are not dating. This is not a date. This is a pizza."
"Right. Anyway." He sat down, cross-legged, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned. It was worse, she realized than no shirt at all. "We haven't asked some of the essential questions to make sure this relationship has a chance."
"Such as?"
"Vacation weekend. The mountains or the shore?"
"Mountains. We live at the shore."
"Agreed." He bit into the pizza. "Favorite guitar player. Eric Clapton or Chet Atkins?"
"Chet who?"
He actually went pale. "Oh God." With a wince, he rubbed his heart. "Let's skip that one. It's too painful. Scariest movie ever—classic category, Psycho or Jaws?" "Neither. The Exorcist."
"Good one. Who would you trust, with your life, against the forces of evil? Superman or Batman?"
"Buffy—the vampire slayer."
"Get out." He swigged beer. "Superman. It has to be Superman."
"One whiff of kryptonite and he's down for the count. Besides"—she polished off her slice and went for another—"Buffy has a much more interesting wardrobe."
He shook his head in disgust. "Let's move on. Shower or bath?"
"It would depend on—"
"No, no, no." He snagged more pizza. "No depends. Pick."
"Bath." She licked sauce off her finger. "Long, hot and full of bubbles."
"Just as I suspected. Dog or cat."
"Cat."
He set the slice down. "That is just so wrong."
"I work all day. Cats are self-reliant, and they don't chew your shoes." He shook his head in deep regret. "This might be the end of things between us. Can this relationship be saved? Quick. French fries or caviar?"
"Really, that's ridiculous. French fries, of course."
