That Kind Of Girl. Kim Mckade

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ set out, and the grater in the dish drainer, and began grating cheese into a bowl. “So, I thought you were going to Paris?”

      “Who told you that?”

      “You did, graduation night. You said you were going to New York to art school, then to Paris, because that was where all artists went.”

      Becca made a show of concentrating on the eggs she was beating. She poured them into the hot skillet and tilted the pan to let the eggs spread evenly. “I said a lot of things that night. People do that when they’re drunk. They blather.”

      “Sure they do,” he allowed. “And sometimes being drunk makes them relax enough to really speak the truth.”

      “I wouldn’t know. That was the first and last time I ever enjoyed that particular experience— Do you like mushrooms?”

      He nodded, and she sprinkled them in, along with a bit of chopped ham. She took the bowl of cheese from him and dribbled cheese in, too.

      “So, what happened?”

      “You know what happened. I didn’t get accepted into the art school. I believe I told you that.”

      “Yeah, I remember.”

      She looked at him then, and her face went still. “You do remember, don’t you. I was hoping you didn’t.”

      “It’s not the kind of night a guy is likely to forget.” He couldn’t help the grin that started to creep up.

      She mumbled something and turned back to her omelette, folding it over with a spatula.

      “I figured you wouldn’t remember,” he said. “You were pretty wasted.”

      “You don’t know women that well, Colt. Our most humiliating moments are the ones we remember most clearly. Wasted or not.”

      She slid the omelette onto a plate and returned to work on the next, not looking at him.

      “It wasn’t humiliating,” he said. “At least, it shouldn’t have been.”

      “Come on, Colt. I acted like a fool.” She faced him, one hand gripping the spatula, the other on her hip. “I practically begged you to take me away with you. And I—I…” She sighed and turned back to the pan. “You know what I did.”

      Oh, yeah. He knew.

      He stepped up and took the plate she held out to him. He wanted to touch her again, but got the feeling he’d get a fork speared in his hand if he tried. Instead he rooted around until he found the silverware drawer, and carried two forks and knives to the small table in the dining room.

      Becca followed with a tray containing her own plate, a smaller one with a stack of toast, two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice. Her face was flushed, but he didn’t think it came from standing over a hot omelette pan. He decided the gentlemanly thing would be to change the subject.

      “The house looks nice. You’ve done a lot with it.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Did you do all the work yourself?”

      “What I could. I had this window enlarged, and I hired Pete Huckaby to do it. He moved to Aloma after you left, I think. He just finished a few months ago. And there was some plumbing that needed to be redone, which I couldn’t do, of course.”

      She tore off a bit of toast, but he noticed she didn’t eat it. She looked around the room.

      “It was mostly cosmetic work. Paint and paper, and changing the furnishings. But it makes a lot of difference.”

      He forked a bite of omelette and studied her as he chewed, thinking of the “cosmetic work” she’d done to herself. “Yeah, it makes a difference in the appearance. But underneath, it’s still the same house.”

      She faced him head-on, and he knew from the steely glint that came into her green eyes that she caught on immediately. He knew, and was impressed when he saw her chin lift.

      “Yes, it is. But then, the house was basically a good house, solid and strong. All it needed was cosmetic work and a little attention to make it a home again. So why not take it and make it into the home I always knew it could be?” She lifted one brow and almost defiantly stuffed a forkful of omelette in her mouth.

      And for some inexplicable reason, that made him want to jump across the table and kiss her.

      Instead, he just grinned and shrugged. “No reason I can think of.” He looked around at the design she’d painted on the dining room wall; deep green vines and morning glory climbing over a trellis. She was right—it did feel more like a home than it ever had when old lady Danvers lived here with all her dark, stuffy furniture.

      “So you decided to just paint the house instead of painting the world.”

      “I paint,” she said defensively. “I haven’t bowled the art world over with my talent the way I’d planned, but I do paint. And you saw the ads I draw for Dunleavy’s. That actually pays a little.”

      “I suppose that’s enough, then.”

      She glared at him, then sighed. “Yes, Colt, it’s enough. I didn’t go out and set the world on fire like you did, but it’s fine. I have a good life. And my painting may be more of a hobby than a profession, but it’s still mine.” She closed her eyes for a second, then shook her head and looked at him again. “Nothing works out the way you think it’s going to when you’re eighteen, Colt. At least, it hasn’t for me. But that’s okay. You know, when I think about it, not one thing has changed since that night in your pickup, and yet everything has changed. I’m a different person now, even though I’m still the smart girl who helps everybody with their algebra homework. I just get paid for it now. My life hasn’t changed that much on the surface. I’m still in Aloma, still in the same house, still a—”

      She broke off with a sharp intake of breath. She clamped her mouth shut and looked at him with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing. He thought for a second she was choking, but she’d just gone very, very still.

      And in that moment the thought followed itself through in his head. He dropped his fork to his plate and gaped at her.

      “Becca, don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?”

      Chapter 3

      He shouldn’t have laughed, he decided later. He was justified in being surprised, even shocked. She’d just admitted to being a thirty-year-old virgin, for Pete’s sake. Surprise was to be expected.

      But really, he should not have laughed.

      The clock on the wall behind him had ticked loudly in the silence that had echoed his question. She’d sat, her face flushed, and stared back at him. As soon as it dawned on him what she’d just said, or had tried not to say, he felt a grin start to build like he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

      Becca Danvers, with her sweet kisses and carefully banked desires, was still untouched.

      The thought had filled him with so much pleasure, in fact, that he laughed. Out loud.

СКАЧАТЬ