Lucky. Jennifer Greene

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      “But it’s always better,” Graham said from across the table. “The way Kasey cooks, it’s a miracle I’m not three hundred pounds.”

      “How’s your daughter? Doing all right at school?” someone asked him.

      “Laura’s just fine—supposed to come home next weekend.”

      “Has she seen the baby yet?”

      “No. She was just getting settled in at U of M, starting classes….”

      Kasey kept checking the guests, making sure no one needed something. Yet every time she glanced at Jake, his gaze already seemed to be waiting for her, already studying her in a way that made her pulse rush. It wasn’t a bad feeling. Just a little unnerving. Suddenly she was conscious of her flyaway hair and the pretentious black dress and how flushed her cheeks were from running.

      “I can’t imagine how you managed all this with a new baby,” Karen said.

      “Oh, Tess is no trouble, is she, Graham?” But when Kasey looked at her husband, he’d clearly been sucked into a conversation with Peter Felding. Cripes. Not Peter. The two men were friends, but Graham would definitely turn cranky if the two started arguing politics. She pushed back her chair. “If you’ll all just relax a few minutes, I’ll bring in dessert.”

      “Let me help, Kasey,” Karen insisted.

      “No, no, honest, it’s no trouble. Everyone just put your feet up.”

      With a smile, Kasey pushed the swinging door into the kitchen. Please let it keep going so well went the mantra in her head.

      And it was going good, she thought. If her head weren’t pounding, the night would be almost perfect. And she did have to keep hustling. Fresh coffee had to be made—and not ordinary coffee, but fresh ground beans, with a pinch of salt and egg shells added to the ground for richness. Then the foot-tall sponge cake with the marshmallow frosting needed fresh cherries for a garnish. And then dessert dishes—where had she put the German china ones that were Graham’s grandmother’s?

      She was just carving the sponge cake when a piece slid. It was right there. Sitting politely on the spatula, waiting to be transferred to the heirloom plate when, blast it, the slice of cake took off. Went flying through the air. Instinctively she grabbed for it. And caught it. Which meant that the marshmallow frosting and sponge cake were suddenly squished all over her hands—what didn’t gush all over her black dress and the floor.

      At that precise moment, the kitchen door opened.

      “Uh-oh.”

      The masculine voice was filled with humor…Jake McGraw, she saw, the instant she looked up with frantic eyes. “I couldn’t imagine how you could do it all alone. Bring in coffee and dessert both. I was going to volunteer to help, but man, now that I’ve seen that cake…personally, I wouldn’t be wasting anything that looks that terrific on company.”

      For some crazy reason, she found herself relaxing for the first time all day. “It’s good,” she said. “But not quite so good when eaten off a black dress.”

      “You got some on the fancy necklace, too.”

      “Oh no, oh no—”

      “Let’s see. Quit fussing. Nothing’s that bad.”

      “They’ll all be waiting for dessert—”

      “They’re all stuffed like pigs and having a good time shooting the breeze. Tip your head up.” He grabbed a napkin and rubbed it on the necklace. Dipped the napkin in sink water, then rubbed the necklace a second time. He was standing so close she could see the cleft in his chin, smell his brand of soap, see his thick brown hair under the kitchen light, so dark and walnut-rich with that hint of cinnamon. Then he stepped back to take a critical look. “Well, it may still be sticky, but it doesn’t look like a meringue necklace anymore. Turned back into diamonds.” His eyes met hers, sexy and mysterious and darker than whiskey. “That necklace looks heavier than lead.”

      “It is. To be honest, I’ve never been much of the jewelry type.” She added hastily, “Not that I don’t love it. But the fear of losing it scares the wits out of me.”

      “Well, having to cut your fancy cake would generally scare the wits out of me. But I’m here, so you might as well put me to work. Besides, then you can blame it on me if anything else spills.”

      “I will, you know.”

      “You will what?”

      “Blame any and all spills on you.” How goofy was this? Teasing as if she’d known him for years. Yet he didn’t seem like a stranger. He seemed…different. The way she’d always felt different, not one to easily fit in.

      Maybe he had alcoholism and major mistakes in his personal closet, but Kasey couldn’t see it to look at him. He was obviously a caring son—caring enough to chauffeur his dad to events that he didn’t necessarily want to attend himself. And she loved the intelligence, the experience, the depth in his eyes. Yeah, she could see a trace of bad boy in his posture, in his lazy, lanky way of moving, in the kindling way he looked at a woman…but there was nothing to scare her from liking him.

      The kindling potential nagged at her a bit, but not much. She was too old to pretend it wasn’t there—too old to need to. She loved Graham. It was just nice to talk to someone who just seemed to like her…. someone where she didn’t feel as if she had to be ON all the time, striving to prove herself.

      “Did you really come in here just to help me?” she asked Jake curiously.

      “Yeah, basically. I kept thinking someone else was going to volunteer—because for damn sure, I’m not great shakes helping in a kitchen. But you’ve been running a hundred miles an hour alone, as far as I could see.”

      “It isn’t really running. I like cooking—”

      “Yeah. So your husband keeps saying. Anyway, I also thought you’d probably been warned against me. Right?”

      Again, those shrewd dark eyes met hers, held hers. She had the sensation of a thirsty man taking a sip of a long, slow drink. “Right,” she admitted.

      “So I thought I’d better let you know—probably everything you heard was true. If my being in the kitchen with you could be a problem, just say the word and I’ll leave.”

      “Hey, you just offered to help and already you’re trying to get out of it? Fat chance.” But she had to add more quietly, “Just for the record, though, I don’t need anyone else’s opinion to figure out who I want as a friend.”

      He started dealing pieces of cake to plates faster than a Las Vegas hustler, but he cocked his head toward the window. “Look out at the driveway.”

      She did, and saw the obvious crowd of cars belonging to all the guests.

      “See the Beemers and Lexi and Mercedes and so on? And then do you see the eight-year-old Honda Civic?”

      “Sure.”

      “Well, the Civic’s mine.”

      “Ah. СКАЧАТЬ