Currant Creek Valley(21)

In her burst of energy, she had made spring soups and casseroles, pastas and chicken dishes.

The marathon cooking session had yielded some very nice results and she couldn’t wait to share the bounty.

She knew exactly what had generated this burst of energy. That kiss. All through those short few hours of sleep, she had dreamed of entwined breaths, of solid, warm arms around her, and had awakened with tousled sheets and this seething, writhing force to do something with her day.

Sam Delgado was an amazing kisser.

She should have guessed he would be from the preliminary work she had seen him do at Brazen. A man who gave such scrupulous attention to detail, such loving care, in one area of his life, likely tended to bring the same concentration and focus to others. When he kissed her, she felt as if nothing else in the world mattered to him but that moment and her mouth and making sure they both took away what they needed.

She blew out a breath as she turned off Currant Creek Valley Road and headed toward the old section of town.

If it were only a kiss, she wouldn’t also have this vague sense of unease, rather like she had when she was a kid and she was about to take on a ski run that was slightly above her capabilities.

She really liked him, that kiss notwithstanding. She hadn’t enjoyed an evening that much in...well, she couldn’t remember when. Sam had been great company, clever and sexy, with a finely wrought sense of humor.

All morning, she had been fighting the temptation to take a quick little drive up the hill to the old fire station on some flimsy excuse, just to see him again.

She imagined him building her kitchen right now, sweaty and hard muscled, that tattoo flexing while he used some scary-looking power tool. Her toes tingled as if she had missed a step racing down for breakfast, as if she stood on the brink of the high dive, prepared to take a plunge into unexplored waters, but she did her best to ignore her purely physical reaction.

She wasn’t about to go to Brazen, no matter how tempting that image...or the man. Instead, she had spent the morning cooking up a storm with a funny dog at her side and now had three dozen meals to show for it. That was certainly a much more constructive outcome than if she had wandered to the restaurant site to moon over something she couldn’t have and shouldn’t want.

The first stop of the day was a small, neat residence around the corner from the house where she had grown up. She pulled into the driveway, where a sweeping, low-hanging branch of the Japanese maple along the drive scraped the top of her SUV. She made a mental note to ask Riley if he could bring his chainsaw over and cut back some of the trees. Pruning should have been done in March but Caroline’s health had been fragile for months and many things slipped off the priority list.

Though the Hope’s Crossing growing season was only just beginning, the gardens Caroline tended with great love and care already looked weedy and overgrown. Her friend would hate that. She probably looked out the window and cringed when she saw the perennials that hadn’t been cut back properly in the fall, the bare spots where she hadn’t planted bulbs.

She would have to ask Claire to add Caroline’s yard to the Hope’s Crossing Giving Hope Day, when the town residents gathered together to help their neighbors in multiple ways. The event was still several weeks away, though. Maybe she could grab her mother, Evie and Claire before then and have a work party to handle some of the more pressing needs.

In the meantime, she had deliveries to make. She opened the back hatch of her SUV and pulled out the first dozen of the meals she had fixed. Leo thrust his brown nose between the seats to watch her out of big, curious eyes.

“Do you want to come?”

He actually moved his head as if nodding, though she knew no dog could be that smart. Her mother would probably consider taking a strange dog into someone else’s home rude but she happened to know Caroline loved dogs. Her own beagle-cross mutt had gone to doggie heaven about four years ago, but Alex had vivid memories of Caroline in overalls and floppy straw hat, working in the garden while her dog looked on.

Cancer could be a bitch. In Caroline’s case, the chemotherapy had messed with her brain chemistry and a series of resulting strokes had left her clinging to her remaining independence with both hands.

She rang the doorbell and waited several long moments. Finally, after knocking again, she tried the knob. It turned in her hand and she pushed open the door.

“Caroline? It’s Alex. Are you home?”

A moment later, she heard a shuffle-shuffle-thud and Caroline’s walker came into view.

“I’m here. Hello, my dear.” Caroline’s voice was a little garbled, as if she spoke through a mouthful of the smooth, shiny stones at the bottom of her goldfish pond.