Winter's End. Ruth Herne Logan

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      Chapter Five

      “Great stew,” Kayla announced, but didn’t wait for Marc’s customary gruff acknowledgment. “I’ve never had better.”

      Marc met her gaze, surprising her. “Thanks. Dad and I came up with this.”

      Pete laughed, his fork aloft. The sound inspired a quick smile from Jess. “After too many failures to count,” he lamented, grinning. “Our early attempts were disasters. We’d have never made it in the restaurant business. Jess being little, we could always mash something up for her.”

      Jess groaned.

      “But for us, we had a long spell where we grilled everything,” Pete continued. The memory deepened his smile. “Steak, chicken, burgers, hot dogs, chops. I bought a propane grill so we wouldn’t have to mess with charcoal in the dead of winter.”

      “Makes side dishes a challenge,” Kayla offered.

      Once again Marc surprised Kayla by looking right at her. “Frozen veggie casseroles you stick in the microwave.” He arched a brow that would have done Pierce Brosnan proud. “And baked potatoes.”

      “Always baked potatoes,” agreed Pete. “Peeling and mashing was too much work.”

      “Exactly.” Marc exchanged another smile with his dad before turning back to her.

       Kayla nodded in appreciation. The fact that he wasn’t growling pushed her to make the look more sincere. “That sounds all right, though. A good meal, all in all.”

      “Every night.”

      She laughed out loud. “Seriously?”

      Marc leaned her way. The green flecks in his gray eyes were joined by points of gold surrounding a jet-black pupil, a myriad of muted color, very Monet. He held her gaze. “Every single night for over a year.” Then he flashed the smile she’d seen once before and she couldn’t help but grin in return. Maybe he had a personality after all.

      She was a smart girl and she’d been raised in an environment that made her examine other people’s motives. That made her reasoning simple.

      Marc DeHollander wanted something.

      Kayla tamped down the feeling. She could be wrong. He may have had a change of heart in the quarter hour she chatted with Jess, sitting on the worn but comfy sofa. Maybe he’d come to realize she wasn’t evil personified.

      Not likely. Lifting her coffee, she let her eyes meet his.

      Strength. Ambition. Focus. She read the attributes in his expression and couldn’t find them lacking. They were good qualities. There was a potency about Marc DeHollander that lent itself to aspirations.

      He was a goal-setter. Whether he had the gumption to reach those goals was another thing, but she sensed the determination from that one look.

      So why the sudden change to nice? Was he trying to smooth things over for his dad’s sake?

      Possibly. He clearly loved his father.

      Or maybe Jess’s presence inspired him. Perhaps he shelved rude behavior in the presence of impressionable teens.

      More likely.

      Kayla set down her mug and appraised him.

      He met her gaze with no animosity. Different, in a nice way.

      But Kayla had learned to study the motives behind behavior rather than accept actions at face value. She knew better than to trust the surface. She liked the more relaxed demeanor he offered, but wouldn’t be fooled by it.

      As long as he put a lid on that “sit beside me” smile. The wattage alone was enough to ruin a girl’s resolve. Luckily, Kayla’s self-generated “I’m leaving in six months for places unknown” force field was firmly intact.

      “Dinner was good.” Kayla shrugged into her coat with careless ease. “I know you were surprised to find me here. Your father didn’t mention he called me?”

      Marc shook his head. “He was asleep this afternoon, and I ran errands before I picked up Jess.” He watched as she positioned her scarf, long fingers snugging the ends beneath the coat. “You wear open-toed beach shoes in the house and bundle up to walk thirty feet to your car.”

      “They’re not beach shoes,” she argued. “They’re comfy shoes, with quiet soles that don’t disturb resting patients. And the car,” she nodded toward the drive, “has been sitting for over two hours. It’ll barely be warm by the time I get home.”

      “Your heater doesn’t work?” Why did that bother him? A professional woman ought to have sense enough to service her car, shouldn’t she?

      “It’s pokey,” she replied, pulling on her gloves, “and I’m not patient enough to wait for it to warm up.”

      Because he did the same thing, he couldn’t say much. Still the thought that her windows might not fully defrost gave him a nudge of unease. He pushed it aside and cleared his throat. “You’ve got cookies?”

      Her hands paused. She frowned, puzzled, her bright blue eyes shading darker.

      “In case the dog’s out.”

      She flushed, but didn’t lose her cool. “A good Scout is always prepared.”

      “You were a Scout?”