He watched her intently as she got out butter and Parmesan and opened a loaf of French bread. “Here. Let me at least cut the bread.” He straightened and moved toward her. “My mom always told me not to stand around like a log.”
“Okay.” She went back to the stove to stir the sauce.
“So they left everything to you in their will? The property, the house?”
“Not exactly.”
While she explained, he sawed off pieces of bread, buttered them on a tray, and put them in the oven.
“I guess Mr. Bradley had a feeling when he went into the hospital that he wouldn’t be coming home. And he didn’t. He told me there was an envelope for me in the barn office and the next day he died. Just three weeks after his wife. Almost like he didn’t want to live without her.”
Something he could understand, Stephen thought.
“The physical therapy part was just an idea, but the Bradleys liked it, wanted the place used for something good after they were gone. I have a date to go in and state my case. No one will talk to me before then.”
“I could look into it for you.”
“No. But thanks.”
He’d be looking anyway. If the city was looking to take it for revenue purposes, which was possible, they’d be more eager if they thought they had a buyer. He’d do everything in his power to make sure they didn’t. And if his partner hadn’t gotten the message before, he’d make damn sure he did now.
When the pasta was ready, they sat across from each other at her small table. Always ready for a meal, he poised his fork to dig in.
Hannah raised a hand to her forehead, beginning the sign of the cross. Crap. He dropped his fork and joined her, thinking his mother would probably cry if she knew how long it had been since he’d done that. Or that the only mention of God from his usual companions was in direct praise of his performance.
“It’s good,” he finally managed after inhaling several bites. “Really good.”
“Thanks. My brother taught me to cook, so…I always wonder if it just tastes good to me or…” She shrugged. “Probably not as good as your mom’s.”
“Another casualty of being raised by wolves?”
She took a bite and smiled.
“Honestly, it’s better, though I’ll deny that if you tell her I said so.” He watched her eat, more at ease than she’d been the last time they’d sat across from each other. Progress.
Progress toward what? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he felt good when he was around her. And until he’d met her, he hadn’t realized how much he needed to feel good. He’d be perfectly happy just to sit here all night and watch her eat. The way she cut her spaghetti into small pieces instead of twirling, the way she smiled at him across the table, just being Hannah.
“So why do you think they didn’t have a will drawn up?”
“They weren’t really the kind of people who thought about paperwork. They were more about animals and hard labor. Simple. And they lived a simple life.”
“And you like that kind of life too.”
“I do.” She pushed her spaghetti around her plate. “I’d be happy to never go anywhere. I hardly ever do. I’m happiest on a horse.”
He could see that. And most comfortable.
“What about you? Where are you happiest?”
“At work.” His answer came easily, instinctively, though maybe not as true as it once was. They finished and he helped her with the dishes, him washing, her drying.
“Well, that was fun,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel.
She narrowed her eyes. “A playboy who likes doing dishes?”
“Playboy?” He slipped his arms around her back, trying hard not to think about how perfect it felt. How perfect she felt. “Who says I’m a playboy?”
“Um…” She looked like she wanted to backtrack. “Magazines. People.”
So she did know. “Your brothers?”
“Maybe.”
“And what about you? What do you say?”
“I say I wouldn’t know.”
“Do I look like a playboy?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She gave him such a duh look, he had to laugh. “You’re sweet. You know that?” Too sweet for a playboy like him, but he wasn’t leaving. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“Done what?”
“Had a woman cook for me. Eaten in her house.” He brought a lock of hair over her shoulder, the back of his hand grazing her chest as he rubbed the strands between his fingers.
“What do you usually do at a woman’s house?”
Realization dawned and the tension in the room returned tenfold.