Despite their presence and their habit of scattering their possessions all over the house—dirty socks in the living room, ponytail holders on the floor of the hall, dirty dishes everywhere—the house still seemed morose and quiet.
As usual, the first call of the day came from Flynn. Slade put his cell on speaker while he flipped whole-wheat pancakes onto each girl’s plate. Yeah, he had kitchen skills. “What’s on the agenda today? You’re programming, right?”
Thankfully, they’d finished the vineyard work as the sun set around nine last night. Slade’s body was aching as if he’d been to one of those hard-core boot camps people paid good money for. And despite the gloves, he had blisters on his palm and thumb from wielding the pruning shears.
But that wasn’t the worst thing about working in the vineyard. The worst discovery was that he couldn’t stop thinking about Christine. They’d talked for hours while they worked. Oftentimes, she’d weave in and out of his space, trying to be efficient in tying up the vines. He’d wanted to grab on to the wire trellis on either side of her head and make her be still, with a touch, an embrace, a kiss.
Slade had spent a near-sleepless night rationalizing his fascination with her and came to a conclusion. Christine was a captivating, compassionate woman who’d appeared just as his friends were pairing up. He’d been feeling left out. He hadn’t had a serious relationship in the eight years since his divorce. It had nothing to do with Christine.
Realistically, he’d be interested in any attractive woman who came along. It was like being hungry while driving across the Nevada desert. The first sign of food and you stopped. Slade may have been hungry, but he didn’t plan on stopping.
“Yes, I’ll be working on the new app today,” Flynn was saying, “after we get through our list. Roxie Knight says her chicken coop sprung a leak and there are chickens all over her yard.”
Slade wasn’t fond of Roxie’s escape-artist chickens. “And...”
“And Mildred’s stove isn’t working. She wants to bake cookies for the kids.”
“Chocolate chip, I hope.” Mildred was a former race-car driver, now nearly legally blind and confined to a walker. Yet, she managed to make delicious chocolate-chip cookies. “And...”
“And Agnes says Christine needs some shelves in her bedroom.”
Agnes? As in Christine’s grandmother? Slade was about to say let Christine put up her own shelves, because he didn’t need to be working anywhere near her bed, when he noticed the twins were sitting on the edge of their seats. “And...”
“Mr. Mionetti’s antenna is out of whack again. Someone needs to climb up onto that roof. I did it last time.”
“You are a cruel, cruel man.” Slade smiled at his girls. They’d enjoy visiting Mr. Mionetti’s sheep ranch. He might have been imagining things, but he thought their lips started curling upward.
“Uncle Slade!” Truman shouted into the phone with the enthusiasm only a seven-year-old boy could bring at this hour of the morning. “I caught a fish last night.”
“You did? Did you eat it raw?” Boys liked things gross and Slade was happy to give it to the talkative boy.
The girls were definitely leaning forward now, their overall bibs almost sagging in pancake syrup.
Truman giggled. “No! Becca fried it for me. But Uncle Flynn had to pull its guts out first. It was awesome.” And then he was on to a new topic. “Do Grace and Faith still smell like skunk? Abby does.”