Linebacker’s Second Chance(74)
“Didn’t think you’d be up. I was going to make gingerbread pancakes. It’s December--got me in the mood for gingerbread.” I don’t add that if I can’t kiss her lips or touch her skin, I need something to occupy my mouth. And for me, cooking is it. Who needs green smoothies when it’s Christmas, anyway?
“That sounds a whole lot better than burnt toast and burnt coffee.” She still won’t look directly at me, and those long pretty fingers are gripping onto my counter so tight that I think she might break her knuckles. “Um, why don’t I change my shirt, and--“
“You got another shirt just like that? I like that one.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I bite my lip, trying to gauge her reaction. Laughing nervously, she brushes the crumbs from her top and her jeans and makes a beeline for the kitchen door. Lucky for me, there’s not a second exit out of the kitchen, and her body brushes against mine for a second. A searing hot spark rolls through my body, but I just nod at her and watch her as she walks toward the stairs.
“You need to put on a shirt, or I won’t be able to look at you. It’s distracting as hell.” Her nice round ass jiggles just slightly as she walks up the stairs, and I consider her words, wondering just what she means by distracting.
“There’s a formal fundraiser next Friday night. Come with me. Be my date. No pressure. People already want to meet this artist who’s gotten started on the mural. They like what you’re doing. I saw you incorporating the kid’s drawings and--it’s cool. It’s super fucking cool.” She pauses on the stairs and looks back at me for a second. Quickly, almost imperceptibly, she glances over my body, and heat pulses through me again.
“I don’t have a damn thing to wear. And I don’t do well--I’m not great in polite company. I’m very weird and artsy. And I curse. A lot.” She has a look on her face like she’s absolutely determined to convince me that she shouldn’t do this, and a shadow of annoyance that I’m still standing here, not wearing a shirt.
“I’ll take care of what you wear.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I will, though. I’ve got a social secretary just for this purpose. And she’ll love picking out a dress for you on short notice. She’s good at that shit. And as for the cursing, people around here aren’t fancy like they are in New York. They don’t give a shit if you curse. Look, I just did it. No problems here.” I shrug and watch her face.
“Fine. But get dressed. And is there a normal car to take me into town? If you’re making me go to this thing, I need to get cracking on the mural.”
“I’ll get the Range Rover geared up for you. No limo today?” She smiles, and it immediately brightens her face. She turns and walks up the last four or five stairs.
There are plenty of corners of this woman that I don’t know, that I haven’t explored. But that smile makes me want to, makes me want to know her. Hell, I already want her. But I have a feeling that there’s more to her, even beyond the mesmerizing and intelligent woman I’m getting to know.
Hidden depths, that woman has.
And I think I’d let her burn my toast any damn time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I spend the next week getting the outline of my mural together with Star, the resident artist. Her mural shows the sunrise over the mountains surrounding Ruidoso. Throughout the hills are tiny, detailed houses, each with smoke rising from the chimney and a white picket fence in every yard. The colors of the sunrise blend together in a riot of pinks, oranges, and blues seeping in from the top of the wall. “Waking to a brighter day,” the banner reads, sprawled across the landscape in matching colors.
With Star and occasional input from Rowan, she and I design the night sky with drawings from the children that Coming Home has helped superimposed over the mountains and the stars. “Coming home to a safer night,” it will read. She and I start on the painting together on Thursday while Rowan is back at the ranch, tending the horses and chatting with board members, state politicians, and community organizers.
As Star and I begin to paint the background in dark blues and purples, the day warms up and we strip down to our long-sleeved shirts, both stained with paint. Star is a quiet woman, reserved and thoughtful. But when she speaks, her words seem to hold gravity--and if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have the incredible design we built together. We paint in silence for over an hour, and then she looks at me for a while before she speaks.